


Long Way Home

by Eryn



Series: Long Way Home [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Kink, M/M, Medical, Mpreg, NaNoWriMo, School, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:15:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 57,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eryn/pseuds/Eryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a society where your secondary gender is diagnosed and your mate predestined at birth, there’s little need for romance. You will find your mate one day and fall into the role you were diagnosed at and live happily ever after, or so it says.</p><p>When they’re diagnosed, Sherlock and John are both too young to understand the implication. They’re part of the 0.1 % diagnosed before their 17th birthday, forced to grow up quickly to keep up with their bodies. And they don’t know it yet, but they’ll also be part of those unfortunate fellows who will only meet their mate after their 30th birthday.</p><p>And while Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade is more than happy to finally be diagnosed as an Alpha, Mycroft Holmes could have lived forever without the world knowing he was an Omega. But they’ve not been asked, so they make do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock 1981

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story I wrote for NaNoWriMo2012 and it will be posted here as I beta read each chapter. The story will follow our four protagonists as they grow up and finally meet and mate. Be prepared for the consent issues that come with Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics as well as implied Mpreg.  
> The warnings concern the story as a whole, so read them carefully so you'll know what you get yourself into here.
> 
> Each Chapter will be written from a different POV, which will be indicated in the Chapter title.
> 
> If anyone's interested in helping me bring you new parts faster by beta-reading the other chapters, feel free to drop me a line here, mail me at entangledwood at gmail dot com or at my tumblr entangledwood.tumblr.com

**6th of January 1981**

On the day Sherlock Holmes was born it rained for 24 hours, but it wasn’t like he noticed that. Neither did his parents or his brother. It was just after new year and school had been set to start the day before, but Siger had insisted his son stay home until his brother was born. Little Sherlock had been supposed to arrive at Christmas, but the brat had taken his time. Now it was the sixth of January and Siger Holmes was holding onto his mate’s hand as he sat at Violet’s bedside.

They’d arrived at the hospital on Sunday evening because if the child took any loner, measures needed to be taken. But on Monday his second son had finally decided it was time to make an appearance. Or at least pretend to do. So Siger’d sat beside his wife and watched her growl and pant. Mycroft was just outside the room, in the little private nook that went with every labour room in the maternity ward. It was never a good idea to put Alphas close together when their mates were in labour. Because of this the rooms were set up more like small apartments, only without a kitchen or a secondary bedroom. All there was was the entry hall living room crossover, a tiny bathroom and a bedroom for the Omega. The whole thing was scented carefully, with personal items scattered around and scented candles to neutralise foreign scents. It worked both to calm the Alpha and to teach the infant the smell of his family, the scent of home. Even the doctors came with scent-masking lotions and uniforms that were laundered well past even the smell of laundry detergent or fabric.  
All just so the baby would recognise its parents and bond with them and only them. Even the scent of siblings was only tolerated if the Alpha permitted it.

It was general consensus that a child would react favourably towards all family members as they instinctively searched out the familial scent marks. But there might not be unconditional trust from the very beginning. Squeezing his wife’s hand Siger rose and went to the door. Violet was breathing heavily behind him and over that he could hear the midwifes soft encouragements. It made him grit his teeth and dread the moment the doctor would have to come in. No matter that he’d spend almost six months getting to know the people who’d bring his second son into the world. He was still on edge, not quite trusting them with his mate even now. But he needed to remain calm and support Violet through labour. And if that meant letting the midwife do her job, then Siger was prepared to turn away and check in on Mycroft.

His older son was sitting just outside the room with his first grade textbook in his lap. Mycroft had always been a quiet child and for a while Siger had feared that his firstborn would be an Omega. Not that there was anything bad about being an Omega. It was just that someone needed to continue the family name and it would have been convenient if Mycroft were an Alpha as well as his oldest child. After all he’d had no guarantee that there’d be more children in his future. No matter the fertility rates for Omega and the fact that they hadn’t used birth control ever since they bonded. It had taken them almost six years to conceive little Sherlock. Nobody knew why, but Siger didn’t care much either way. Soon he’d be holding his second son in his arms.

Siger grit his teeth as the doctor hurried past him and into the room. Apparently the midwife had decided it was time and Siger made sure to send Mycroft a reassuring smile before he turned back around. The boy was still naive in the way young children were. Unaware of the intrinsic game of scents and territories and social hierarchies and Siger had no wish to change that. No matter that his mind screamed at him to go make sure his mate was okay.  
The time would come soon enough when Mycroft would ask why people smelled different and why it was okay to fight with some people and not okay with others. He’d rough with the boys, or maybe, more likely, he’d debate with other boys and he’d realise he had an easier time to argue with some than with the other. They could deal with the problem then. For now he just needed to reassure Mycroft that everything was fine. No matter what sounds came from the bed Violet was fine and he’d see his brother soon. All would be well, there was no need to worry, and Mycroft should just go back to his books and crayons. Never mind that Mycroft found the crayons boring and Siger knew he only used them because they’d been a Christmas gift from aunt Helena, who Mycroft greatly admired because she was an Alpha and a renowned artist. With a last nod to Mycroft he turned and went inside, firmly closing the door behind him.

Inside the room the cursing had made way to paced breathing once more accompanied by soft urges from the doctor. The man was seemingly scentless and Siger found it disconcerting that he couldn’t locate the man by smell alone. Stone faced he watched the doctor take his seat on the stood between his Omega’s spread thighs. Siger felt his face scrunch up and he involuntarily bared his teeth at the stranger who was encroaching on what was his. But already Violet was looking at him and motioning for him to come closer and he hurried back to her side. Her face was white and Siger carefully ran his fingers through her hair before taking hold of her hand, letting her dig her perfectly manicured nails into his skin. It hurt but he ignored it. He’d likely have small punctures before it was all said and done, but he pushed that thought aside. The same had happened when Mycroft had been born and he still bore the scars proudly.

The doctor and midwife were working methodically now and Siger kept holding Violet’s hand, reassuring her and urging her on. He also did his best to ignore the other persons who’d come into the room. The nurses would wash the child and make sure it was healthy while the doctor ensured Violet was fine and then he could throw them all out. But until then he needed them. With gritted teeth he’d endure their presence. Siger leaned forward and placed his head on his wife’s shoulder, inhaling her scent, allowing her to inhale his scent in return. He could feel her nosing his ear and he squeezed her hand carefully. In return she pressed his tightly again at the same time as her whole body contracted. The doctor was instructing her to press now and Siger gladly suffered the pressure of nails on his hand and wrist as Violet’s body tightened in time with the instructions.

Time lost all meaning to Siger until the scent of his wife’s blood was overlaid by a new scent. The trails of it had already been noticeable in Violet’s own scent, but now, on his own, with a high wail to go with it, Siger recognised his son immediately. Smiling he raised his face and rained kisses over Violet’s face while she made grabby motions. The midwife was talking to them, reassuring them that the child was fine, reporting on the examination and the cleaning before the little bundle of cloth was placed in Violet’s arms.

Sherlock was a tiny little thing, especially considering that he was essentially two weeks late. But he had ten little fingers and ten tiny toes and he was snuggling against Violet with so much trust it made Siger want to freeze the moment so he could forever conserve it in his memories. Violet herself was murmuring to her son, letting him latch onto her breast to feed him when he started to cry all the while stroking his little head and back. Siger just sat at her side and watched, his own fingers gently carding through her sweaty hair. He barely noticed when the doctor wrapped up his hand before excusing himself. The nurses had already taken the bloodied cloth and other implements with them so now it was only them and the midwife, who was motioning for Mycroft to come inside.

Yes, that was how it would be. Him and her and their children. And maybe Mycroft would be an Alpha and Sherlock would be an Alpha and they’d bicker and fight until the end of time. Or Mycroft would turn out to be an Omega and they’d argue and scheme until the time they both bonded. As far as Siger Holmes was concerned it was all fine.

However, his assumption that everything was fine as well as general contentment only lasted until Violet smiled sweetly and held out the child to him. Her hands were shaking from exhaustion and Siger was happy to take the child, hoping to give her a chance to rest while he got to know his second perfect son. But as soon as Violet’s hands left him, as soon as the smell of Siger surrounded him, Sherlock started screaming. Violet frowned at him and Siger did everything he could think of to calm the child. He even went so far as to carefully push his fingers between those screaming lips. But all that got him was the soft hard pressure of cartilage as Sherlock bit down. Mycroft was frowning and the midwife was looking worried. But there was no calming Sherlock. Nothing Siger did worked and when Sherlock started turning faintly blue from all the screaming he handed his son back to Violet.

He wanted to scream when Sherlock immediately quieted. Like a switch that was flicked the boy stopped screaming and instead snuggled up to his mother’s warmth, searching out her skin without conscious thought. He just squirmed and yawned until he was positioned with his head on his mother’s bare shoulder and Violet was carefully arranging the blankets about them both once more. The midwife was giving them calculating gazes and he shot the woman a hard look. A toddler rejecting the Alpha was most often caused by questionable parentage, but he wouldn’t let the woman think bad of his wife. There were enough other causes and maybe Sherlock just wasn’t ready to connect with the outside world just yet. Maybe it had nothing to do with any obscure condition or ill conceived superstition. Maybe Sherlock was just tired and didn’t want to be held. It would surely settle with time.


	2. Mycroft 1981

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind feedback I received on the first chapter. I'm not sure I'll be able to pull of further daily updates, but rest asured, the entire story is written and waiting for edits, so it'll definitely be finished.

When his parents had told him he was getting a sibling, Mycroft hadn't understood what that meant, _getting a sibling_. He'd known what a sibling was, sure. Like aunt Helena and dad and Uncle Michael. Or aunt Lisbeth and mummy. Or cousin Steven and Sylvia. Or the annoying Lewin brothers who still didn't get that they weren't allowed to play in their field. But he hadn't really known what it meant, what it would come to mean, for him.  
Of course he'd only been 5 and a half then and not even in school. But now, at 6 and almost a quarter, he was in school and knew things. Things like how to identify a tree by its leaves and what the way to his classmates' homes were. He also knew reading and writing and maths, but they didn't talk about that. Not since first week, when he'd asked his teacher why they were still looking at pictures and did she know that that tree house would never stay up like that? She'd paled dramatically and send him outside while she called his parents. They'd had a long discussion over ageapropriatnes and in the evening Mycroft had learnt from his mom that the word was 'age appropriate' and meant what a child was supposed to know at what age. He'd had a lot of discussions about what was age appropriate ever since he started school and he was sure he now knew more about this than his teachers. 

He also knew that apparently, since he was getting a little sibling, it was age appropriate to be jealous. Mycroft thought that was ridiculous. What was there be jealous about in a little wyrm that couldn't even look straight. Though he had to admit the thing was a little gross and scrunchy where it laid curled up in his mummy's arms. His little brother had an impressive lung volume already and after the excitement with his dad Mycroft was loath to disturb the little wyrm. After all they had all had enough excitement for today.

So he just watched as his mummy fed his little brother and he dutifully fetched her another blanket before following his father outside. He knew that his dad wouldn't be nice to him now. The midwife had made sure to tell him what would happen and that Siger still loved him. Of course he did. But around the birth he'd also be worried about Violet and little Sherlock and he was already a big boy and could take care of himself. Again, obvious. But by then Mycroft had already been quite good at guessing what would be age appropriate, so he'd nodded earnestly and let her tell him another story about how he should be careful with little Sherlock and that he should better not wander off unsupervised until they left the hospital. As if he would. So now he sat down in 'his' chair again and picked up the crayons. They were too big and didn't sharpen properly, but he used them anyways to paint a picture of the waiting room, where dad was now standing in the doorway and daring anybody to try to enter. No one would. The midwife had already told him they wouldn't be bothered for the next two days beside someone bringing food. Mycroft just hoped dad knew that as well and would take time to sleep later. Mycroft could look after mummy and Sherlock for that time.

Unfortunately Mycroft’s conviction to stay awake lasted all of an hour until he started yawning. It was of course already well into the evening so he padded over into the bedroom and climbed into his mother’s bed. Violet shushed him but made room willingly in her big hospital bed. Mycroft knew the bed was extra big so all the children could pile in it, but with his family it was just him and Sherlock. Not the five or six children that were normally born. Of course Mycroft knew that of those children many used to die young and it was only thanks to medicine that all those children got older and that parents could have less children if they wanted. It made him happy because Mycroft wasn’t sure he wanted children. Of course, much like ‘siblings’, ‘children’ were more of an abstract concept to him. He was after all, as his teachers liked to remind him, only just six years old and didn’t know a lot of things. It was annoying because they held that over him and were also bothered whenever he did know something. School was nothing like dad had promised. No one interested in teaching him what he wanted to know. His classmates were barely able to write their own names and Mycroft could already read 4th grade books. He might even be able to read 6th grade books, but he hadn’t gotten his hands on those yet.

But still, for all the things he knew, he still had no idea what to do with a sibling. For now Sherlock was a tiny little bundle dwarfed by his blanket and their mummy’s arms. Violet was smiling down at both of them and then took Mycroft’s hand and carefully placed it on little Sherlock’s head. It was soft and a little fuzzy and Mycroft petted it awkwardly. He wasn’t ashame to admit that he did it a bit like he petted Steven’s dog, not sure if it would bite or bark if he pushed to hard. After all since being born Sherlock had already shown just how loud he could scream and Mycroft didn’t want that to happen again. But Sherlock just kept sleeping. Violet leaned down to press a kiss against her youngest’s head before repeating the gesture with Mycroft, who made a face, as was ‘age appropriate’.

“You have to be nice to your brother, Mycroft”, Violet said and Mycroft nodded, rubbing his forehead slowly with the back of his hand, “he doesn’t know anything yet. So you have to take care of him and teach him things”

Mycroft nodded again and burrowed closer against his mummy’s side. He was tired and wanted to sleep, but he also kinda liked the way little Sherlock was snuggling against his hand now, so he didn’t move away. His mummy also wanted his attention, so he would stay up a little longer. A yawn escaped nonetheless.

“Yes, mummy. I’ll make sure to tell him about what’s ‘age appropriate’”, he said, which startled a laugh from her. Mycroft smiled in return. It was always good when mummy was smiling. Especially since Christmas where she’d started to lay in bed all the time, waiting for Sherlock to be born. She’d looked worried and tired then. But now she was laughing and Sherlock was stirring against her chest, so Mycroft pulled his hand back and let her do her thing. He wasn’t quite sure what she was doing with the baby, but he didn’t really care right now as long as it kept Sherlock quiet. He just curled up on the side of the bed and nuzzled against his mummy’s side. Later, tomorrow, when he woke again, maybe he’d hold Sherlock. And then he could start teaching him all the things grown ups never bothered with because it was just the way things were done. Mycroft had already learnt that that was mostly a lie, a ploy to hide the fact that they didn’t know the answer to the question he asked. It was why Mycroft made sure to look things up in the library. Even if he needed the big dictionary and the thesaurus to get the meaning right.

Tomorrow Mycroft would still be here in the hospital and Sherlock would be more awake maybe and if he was fine they could go home the day after and he could give Sherlock the plush squirrel he’d gotten him for Christmas. Or rather, that he’d had aunt Sara get for him so he could give it to his little brother. Only that Sherlock had been late for Christmas, so now he’d get it just because. It was okay to give gifts just because. Grandma Lavender had told him when she snuck him a cookie. Yawning and shifting restlessly Mycroft told his head to quiet down. He didn’t want to think of Grandma Lavender and her wonderful cinnamon cookies right now. He didn’t want to think about the way she’d knead the dough with her hands and give Mycroft a little piece of it to test if it was any good. He…

Whimpering softly he curled against his mummy’s side and thought of home. Not the cottage but the little home in his head. The place he used when he wanted to sleep. He also went there when school was boring and sometimes he didn’t wake until one of his classmates thought it fit to push him out of his chair. The home was nothing grand yet. A big room with floor to ceiling windows and a big bed with warm plush sheets. It was full of books and snuggly armchairs and a picture of his family. He wasn’t too surprised to see a little bundle in his mummy’s lap now. He made it a point to close and lock the door behind himself, draw the curtains and then climb up onto the big bed. It was a grown up bed, but then Mycroft knew he’d grow up eventually. So the bed was like the one he wanted to have later, all big and warm and comfy. He let his mind-self curl up underneath the warm comforter and hugged a pillow to his chest. It wasn’t quite as nice as having someone close by to cuddle with, but that was for later anyways, or so the older boys at school said.

Sighing Mycroft looked at the family picture, letting the familiar faces and well known connections wear him down until he fell asleep.


	3. John 1981

As far as John was concerned today was the best day ever. No matter that school had started yesterday and the torrential rain wasn't quite enough to allow them to stay home. It didn't matter that Harry had taken his race car, a present from his grandpa, for a ride in the mud or that mother and father were fighting again - about what John had no idea. All he knew was, that it was a loud argument, and his mother had been annoyed that he hadn't taken off his boots outside. 

John had just nodded and apologised and then hurried upstairs to get dry clothes. Then he'd made sure to wipe off the muddy footprints downstairs and fixed himself a cup of tea. Technically John wasn't allowed to do it alone because he was only 9 and a half. But he hadn't been unsupervised. Harry had been sitting at the kitchen table doing homework and mother and father had been next door arguing. With his cup balanced between his hands he'd made his way upstairs to his room.   
It was a tiny thing, even with how small he was. But it was his room and he didn't have to share it with anyone. Not like Mary, whose room was almost as small and who had to share it with both her sisters. No, John knew better than to complain about his room. He also knew better than to complain about his lack of siblings, not that he wanted any. No matter that it was the most frequent reason for his parents to fight. He didn't want to share his room and he didn't need someone else to play with. He had plenty friends and he liked his alone time. 

Carefully John set his cup on his desk and then looked around his lair. High sleeper, desk, armchair/desk chair, wardrobe, cupboard, toy chest. His Lego, or rather Harry's old Lego, was strewn across the floor and he carefully placed it back into its box. Then he pulled the thin blanket over the edge of the high sleeper to veil off his play space underneath. From downstairs came the sound of something heavy hitting the wall and John quickly hid in his cave with his tea and a book. It was kinda gloomy inside since the lamps were all outside, but he didn't care about it. He was used to reading in twilight, and today was a great day, so he cared even less. 

Before he could really get into the story however he started to feel restless once again. He couldn't find a comfortable position on his pillow nest, his mind kept wandering, and he had the distinct feeling he should be somewhere else. It felt as if there was something he needed to do, someone he needed to be with. But he knew no one who’d need him around.   
Harry was still downstairs, as were his parents. All his friends were home and there were no people he knew out of town. All his relatives lived in the same city. And none of them required his help. They were all fine, he knew that. Still John felt as if he needed to be somewhere else.

Finally he gave up on reading and went to look out the window, hugging his book to his chest. But the view was all wrong, he could feel it. But he couldn’t crane his neck to look in the right direction and he didn’t want to get all wet by opening the window. Harry's window would be better, but John knew better than to go into her room. And even though the living room window would be better as well, he could still hear the muffled sound of his parents arguing.

So after twisting and turning John gave up on trying to get a good look or resting and set his nervous energy to a different task.

Three hours later his room was pristine. All his crayons and colour pencils were sorted, the paper was neatly stacked, his stuffed animals were lined up around his bed, the pillows in his play area were stacked to one side and the train track was dismantled and put back in its box. John had also made his bed, taken down the bits of trash that had been gathering dust up there and after that he’d emptied his trash bin. Now he was curled up behind his veil again and he still wasn't where he should be. At least his room was in order now, ready and safe for whatever would happen next. Jawning he curled up with his stuffed tiger and got ready for a little nap. He still had homework to do, but that could wait till after dinner. 

Dinner itself was proving to be a rather tense affair, so John made sure to smuggle his cup into the dishwasher beforehand when no one was looking. Mother and father were still not speaking and technically John should still be mad at Harry for mudding his car. But today was a good day and the mud could fall off easily once it was dry, so he simply made sure to stay quiet through dinner and let Harry ramble about school.   
His sis would change schools in summer and she kept going on about the school she wanted to go to, a fancy public school. Of course their parents couldn't afford it, but Harry didn't seem to care. She wanted to stay with her friends and had made it her lifes mission to remind their parents daily of how much fun she had with Adrian and Chloe, Mary's older siblings. It was a familiar spiel already, so John wasn't surprised when their father nodded at all the right moments and then reminded her that she could still meet them after school. But Harry didn't want just that. It wasn't enough for her that Mary's family lived two doors away in a house just like theirs. So she kept talking until mother sighed and said

"it's enough Harriet. Stop making your father uncomfortable."

And no matter how much Harry wanted, she knew better than to argue with the Alpha. John was fairly sure Harry was an Alpha as well, or would be one after her diagnosis. He dreaded that time already and hoped Harry wouldn’t be diagnosed before she went off to the Academy. The Millers down the road had had to send their son to boarding school after his early diagnosis since neither he nor his mother would back down. They’d been fighting constantly. And since here, his parents were already doing that John feared for their home were Harry to join the mix.

After dinner John made sure not to linger. Harry seemed on her way to a good arguing once more. Plus, Tuesday’s telly wasn’t all that interesting. So instead of listening to yet another argument about whether or not they could have more children and why again couldn’t Harry go to the school she wanted, John mumbled something about doing last homework and headed back upstairs.

Of course, last homework was actually ‘all homework’ since he’d been restless all day. He was still restless, but he knew that he couldn’t go wherever it was he should be. And his room was in pristine condition, so he couldn’t burn energy there. There wasn’t even a single empty candy wrapper left. So homework it was, no matter that it was dull and not likely to teach him something he hadn’t gotten in class. But tasks were tasks and they took their time to complete. Especially since Miss Fletcher had again given them 30 stupid math problems to answer, so John would have to take them time to write all the answers down. Miss Fletcher had the habit of collecting their homework so he couldn’t just do it in his head in class.  
He also had to read another chapter for their English class, but he could do that in bed. Once he was tired. After he was done with everything else.

But the evening seems to just drag on and John didn’t grow tired. Instead he seemed to get even more keyed up as he finished up his geography homework and then went to brush his teeth. He briefly contemplated going downstairs to say goodnight, but his parents were arguing in hushed voices and Harry was stomping up the stairs right now, so John took the wise choice of darting back into his room and closing the door behind himself. He still had reading to do after all. But instead of in bed or in his veiled fort he climbed into the armchair standing in front of his window. It was an old piece, a gift from his granddad, and John was actually still small enough that he could curl up to sleep in it. But mother didn’t like that, so he didn’t do it any more.

Looking out into the darkness he wondered where the place was that he should be. It was somewhere to the south or so he thought. From the geography class he knew that London was in the south. And Cornwall. But of course France was also down there somewhere. And Africa. John really had no idea where he should be. He also didn’t know what he should do there, but it still had him thinking, wondering and hoping for whatever was there. Maybe he’d move there in the future. Away from his arguing parents and stupid Harry who didn’t know to keep herself safe. Maybe there he’d not have to worry about shouting and maybe he’d have someone to hug there. Not like mother and father, who only hugged him in the morning when the other was still sleeping.

The light went out in the corridor and John was reminded of the book in his hands. He needed to focus and read and then he could go back to thinking. Or maybe go to sleep. That would be good as well. But for now he had to read. But the story wasn’t able to catch his interest today. Sure, it had been fascinating the last time he opened it, but today it seemed to have lost all value. It was a detective novel and usually John loved those. But today, on this wonderful day, all the colour seemed to have vanished from the story, all the mystery had turned bland. He couldn’t focus and just kept drifting off, the book heavy in his hands until he gave up.

Sighing John put the book on his desk and made a last bathroom trip before climbing up into his bed. It was warm up underneath the ceiling but John still pulled the blanket high to his chin. With a sigh he snuggled into the sheets and then set his alarm clock. From the corridor he could hear his parents moving up the stairs, past their floor and to the parent area on the top floor. It was really just the old attic, but his parents had turned it into their area, off limits to both Harry and him. He could hear them move around and once they were inside, door shut behind them, he exhaled and spared a last look for the clock. It read 10.16 pm and John frowned at it. He wasn’t normally up this late, but he hadn’t felt tired earlier. He wasn’t even feeling tired now, but there was nothing to do but think, so he curled up under his covers and closed his eyes. He’d set his alarm for 6 so he could do his reading, but with how agitated he felt he might just lay awake till then.  
Despite his assumptions however, John fell asleep quickly, his mind filled with dreams of warm hugs and pleasant smiles.


	4. John 1984

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of miscarriage in this chapter as well as depression

**Autumn 1984**

If you asked John, which no one did, the whole thing had started almost four years ago, or around his last birthday, depending on how you defined _the whole thing_.

If you were just asking for the obvious symptoms, the skin irritation, the physiological change, the slight submissiveness, then the answer would be his birthday.  
More precisely the trip to London that was his present. He'd felt immediately at home there in the big city further south and had spend hours dragging his parents and Harry from one quarter to the next, on the trail of something that felt even more like home. But they had never been able to catch it and Harry had become tired of running around and father, who'd finally argued their mother into a third child, had been exhausted as well. So they'd gone for a boat tour instead of more walking. John would have much rather visited the Eye, but the line had been too long for father to wait comfortably, so the river it had been. The boat tour had been alright John guessed. The Thames was a broad river and they'd seen all kinds of sighs from the open top boat. But it hadn't felt like home the way those other quarters had felt. Floating along at the centre of the river, he’d felt like a tourist for the first time. The yearning had been suddenly back with a vengeance, making John think back to the moment it really began.

A cold January evening three and a half years ago, a perfect day that had left him with the sure feeling that he should be somewhere else.  
That was the real moment it had started, and after talking to his counsellor John was fairly sure it was the day his bondmate had been born. The subconscious knowledge of his arrival had triggered a deeply rooted biological response urging him to tidy the nest and be read to welcome his Alpha. He'd apparently bordered on the edge of obsessive nesting behaviour ever since. John mostly found the whole thing fascinating.

After the London trip the more physical symptoms had started to appear as well. Over the summer he grew a lot and when he came back to school his scent was almost unrecognisable under the layers of hormones. He'd also been even more of a model student, and at home his cool head had held everything together through his father's third pregnancy and eventual miscarriage. Never mind that John was only 13 and shouldn't have to worry about groceries and washing and when to water the plants. But apparently neither mother nor Harry had it in them. Mother he could understand. She was more worried about father these days and their arguing had turned mellow. It was just a soft bickering now until father send her on some inane errant for his comfort, just to make her feel better. Harry however stayed firmly out of the whole thing. At 15 she seemed more interested in chasing skirts than caring for her family and their mother wasn't able, or just not willing, to call her on it and make her behave.  
Meanwhile John cared for all of them, did his school work and played rugby with his mates.  
Because of this it had surprised precisely no one when he'd come down with a fever. John had agonised in bed until he couldn't stand it any more. He’d taken cold showers until his lips turned blue. He'd stood naked in front of the open window so the wind might ease his burning up. But it hadn't worked and on his second day of fever his skin started acting up as well. He seemed to be unable to tolerate any fabric at all, not even the soft covers of his parents. He also couldn't seem to be able to keep his food down. It was this last symptom that finally tipped his father of and won him an embarrassing trip to a bond doctor with his mother.

The procedures at the consociationist were, in John’s opinion, both humiliating and tedious. Especially since his mother insisted on being present for all of the examinations. Even, or maybe especially, the one where he’d been asked to take off his pants and bend over. Luckily the procedure had been quick, if invasive. The doctor had also drawn more blood than felt reasonable, taken skin samples and inspected the rash that had sprung up after he’d gotten dressed to go out. The man had also asked a number of questions that had his ears redden violently. The questions ranged from how often he masturbated to what he liked to wear to bed and everything was noted down precisely. John kept glancing over at his mother, who’d seemed just as embarrassed as he was, though not quite as humiliated.

The verdict had been firm. John was, at the young age of thirteen, a diagnosed Omega, albeit one who wasn’t yet sexually mature. What he was experiencing currently was an non-sexual heat and he could expect to experience one of them every three to six months now. After he met his Alpha and bonded the schedule might even speed up to every two months for the first year. John was not looking forward to that, but there was nothing he could do to change his fate. Biology was biology.  
He was prescribed a set of meds to lessen the heat symptoms and he also received his first contraceptives. It was a scary thought. The idea that he could get pregnant as soon as his body decided he was ready. He likely wouldn’t even notice because his body was constantly changing right now. It wouldn’t feel much different from a non-sexual heat and the only hint he’d get would be the Alphas that would try to get to him. But then it’d likely be too late already.  
John also got a lotion for the rash and a pile of leaflets that made his bag overflow. Everything from ‘premature diagnosis’ over ‘cooking in heat’ to ‘sexual submissiveness explained’. They all made his face flush and John vowed that he’d do his best to keep them far from Harry’s fingers. It was already bad enough that she was going on and on about his weird Omega tendencies. Those pamphlets would only give her further ammunition.  
Finally it was just his mother asking some more embarrassing questions, though she also had a few pretty important ones. Yes, he could be excused from school for his heat. No, he wasn’t considered an adult because he wasn’t experiencing sexual heat. Yes, the secondary puberty could happen before first puberty but would likely kick start his physical development. John wasn’t sure what to make of everything, but no matter if he liked it or not, he’d have to deal with it.

Three days later John returned to school, exhausted but glad that the whole affair was over. Unfortunately the whole school already seemed to know what was going on and their Biology teacher, that old hag, took the chance to get some first hand information for their sex-ed class. John was fairly sure she just enjoyed watching him squirm as his classmates got to ask him embarrassing questions. Most of them he couldn’t even answer anyways because hell, even he didn’t know what was happening to his body. He only knew he was keyed up the whole day and had the strangest urges. Like making sure everyone ate lunch or relocating the classroom plants because they might fall down when someone opened the window.  
What was more confusing though, was the attention he was getting. It made him uncomfortable, the way older students took the time to hold the door for him, the way they started at whoever was with him. One of them had even proposed to him and it was only then that John realised that those students were all close to graduating, their final year, the last before they headed off to the Academy for bond education. It was the prime time for diagnosis and he was fairly sure all those who approached him were potential Alphas, whether they knew it or not. It made the situation even more bizarre, and also intimidating. He couldn’t even rough around with his friends any more because one of the older students was sure to break it up and reprimand whoever he’d been roughing with. He’d also been suspended from the rugby team because the Coach “couldn’t allow an Omega on his team. What if one of the other players got handsy?”

John had grit his teeth and left, not willing to argue the point. Just because he was an Omega didn’t mean he couldn’t take care of himself. And just because he was young didn’t mean he wasn’t self-sufficient. He knew what he wanted and he knew what he didn’t want. He could fight off older boys and girls. He’d grown up with Harry and her friends after all. He knew what to do when someone larger and older picked him up to tickle him. He knew how to react when someone tried to tie him to a tree. He knew what to do when he got himself scrapped up. He wouldn’t burst into tears at a scratch and he found it insulting that everyone now felt the need to protect and coddle him.

The only one who seemed to be immune to his secondary gender was his sister and for once John found he was grateful for Harry’s brash behaviour. At least with her around he felt normal. She didn’t care that he was an Omega. She didn’t mind that he walked around almost naked every three months - because of course he got a healthy rapid cycle, hoo-fucking-ray - and made sure not to treat him any different than she had before. She was still abrasive, still got into frequent arguments with him and their parents, she still whined about not going to the school she wanted to and all over was just her usual self.

His parents did their best to follow Harry’s example, but John knew they couldn’t shake off their nature. He was their child so they were bound to protect him, and since he was an Omega child they were double zealous. He was no longer allowed to play outside alone, when he was in heat his father was prone to checking up on him, and when he told stories about his friends from school his mother would look at him disapprovingly until he assured her he really wasn’t interested in bonding with any of them and there was no way they were interested in him that way. They were his mates and had been for years before he’d been diagnosed. No need to worry.


	5. Sherlock 1984

After his third birthday his parents finally started treating him right. Maybe it was because he’d once again thrown a fit of epic proportions when his father had tried to hold him and even dared hand him over to aunt Helena. He’d screamed at the woman and pounded his fists against her chest and shoulder until she let him down and he could hide behind Mycroft’s legs. At least his brother wouldn’t try pick him up or hand him off. Even his mother was prone to such nonsense.   
Sherlock much preferred Mycroft to them. They were, of course, also not treating Mycroft right. But Sherlock did. He curled up with him and watched him read and made sure no one annoyed him when he wanted to be alone with his books and homeworks. Mycroft always wanted to be alone with his books, but he was always too concerned with propriety to make it so. Sherlock had no such qualms. 

If he didn’t want to be held he’d scream and rage and call his aunt a meanie. He’d climb on a chair and lock his room. He didn’t let anyone in when he had to fear that he’d get picked up again. He didn’t hide what he was thinking. What he said was obvious, or at least it should be. Especially for grown ups. Sherlock couldn’t understand why people were mad when he asked Uncle Michael why he wasn’t kneeling if it made him more comfortable. Or when he told mummy that aunt Lisbeth didn’t like her necklace as much as she claimed.  
Mycroft had told him a boring story about age appropriateness - which was a difficult word, and those were always good to know to impress adults - but Sherlock didn’t care about its meaning. He didn’t want to be what his parents thought he should be. He wanted to be who and what he was and he wanted to treat Mycroft like he was. If it meant getting scolded, so be it.

His little tantrum at the birthday party had had the desired effect however, because it had ended with him being send to his room, Mycroft in tow. He’d bothered his brother into playing pirates with him while the adults were talking downstairs. They couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but Mycroft made sure to tell him that he’d caused mummy and father trouble again and that he should be more careful with what he did and said around the adults.   
Of course Mycroft had walked the plank for that. But afterwards, when he was alone on his ship and it was boring without someone to play with, he’d checked on Mycroft. His brother had found a book somewhere and started reading quietly. Mycroft seemed to be always reading. And he was always, if nothing else was required of him, stationary. He would sit or longue or lay or stand, a book in his hands. He wasn’t always reading, Sherlock had caught up to that quickly. But Mycroft had sworn him to secrecy and taught him how to look like you were reading so you could eavesdrop on the grown ups. It was a neat trick to have, even though the adults never seemed to be happy with what he told them even if he didn’t play busy.

After his birthday both his mummy and father seemed to keep their distance and Sherlock didn’t really mind that. He never was happy with having his father around, who unfortunately was close to his mummy constantly. It also meant spending more time with their nanny, who was not really smart, so he could get away with pretty much anything. Mycroft was back in school and Sherlock was in quite the fit about it. His brother went to a fancy school that kept him away most of the day and then kept him busy throughout the afternoon and evening with homework. Which meant Sherlock was only allowed to stick around if he played quietly with his toys. He didn’t like playing quietly, so more often than not he found himself confined to their playroom or his own room until it was time for bed. The only good thing about school time was that at least Mycroft always took the time to brush his teeth with him and then bring him into his room. Later his mummy would drop by for a good night kiss and after his little fit his father would stay away, so Sherlock could fall asleep in peace.

At the end of January a stranger started to visit, who made Sherlock uncomfortable. He wasn’t allowed to scream at strangers, so instead he hid away from the man and snarled at him when he tried to come into his room. He even locked out the nanny one day, when the man was especially annoying. He smelled weird and kept asking stupid questions that Sherlock refused to answer and Sherlock could smell his annoyance at that clearly. The man was short of patience and his mummy didn’t have the heart to tell him to control himself. Of course not. His sweet mummy was an Omega. She didn’t need, shouldn’t have to, stand up to someone. Father should be doing that. But he was at work most days the man visited and Sherlock wasn’t allowed to kick him out like he wanted. He was left to run away and hide and play pranks on their visitor, pranks that got him confined to his room or his toys taken away.

The little game went on for months until his parents finally packed them up for a trip, which was rather exciting. Sherlock hadn’t gone on a trip before. Mycroft always claimed he’d gone to the village as a baby, but Sherlock couldn’t remember. He just knew they were going to London and London was apparently a big city with a big castle and they’d visit someone there. Who, Sherlock hadn’t been able to figure out, but the idea of a trip already had him excited. He knew a lot about travel from the stories Mycroft and the nanny read him. He knew what to expect. Especially in terms of adventures. So he was rather glum about not getting to take his sword and shield. What if a dragon attacked them? Or they needed to save someone?

He’d pouted when his mother lifted him into the safety seat of the car and almost screamed when his father had leaned in to secure his safety belt. He’d refrained only because Mycroft was already sitting next to him and holding his ears shut in preparation. Mycroft was none too pleased with their little travel. Just last evening he’d told Sherlock that he should be careful and not be too honest with the people they met. He should always stick close and not wander off on his own without telling someone. Sherlock had given Mycroft a look and told him that he’d stick around to protect him of course, which had gotten him an indulgent smile. But Mycroft hadn’t tried to disabuse him, so Sherlock was now being good to keep Mycroft around so he could protect him.

 

The ride to London was great and Sherlock couldn’t seem to stop asking questions. Everything outside of the window was fascinating and both mummy and Mycroft did their best to answer his question before the next one could leave his mouth, while their father just drove silently. They arrived in London soon and pulled up in a parking lot next to a fancy looking building. Sherlock didn’t know what it was and Mycroft just laughed when he asked if this was the castle. Sherlock held tightly onto his brother’s hand as they followed their parents inside. Who knew when he’d have to protect him.

Sherlock had seen pictures of what a hospital looked like and he had no idea why they needed to visit one. Mycroft’s hold on his hand tightened and Sherlock moved closer to his brother’s side. His mummy was talking to him, telling him how they’d meet a new doctor now and that she was a nice woman and would be asking him some questions. She told him how he should be nice to the doctor so she could figure out what was going on with him. And that they’d be just outside waiting for him. It had Sherlock shake his head and bury his free hand in Mycroft’s shirt. He wasn’t sick. There was nothing going on with him. And he couldn’t leave Mycroft alone. What if someone stole him while Sherlock was busy telling the doctor he was fine? What if mummy and father took him away and left Sherlock behind to find his way home on his own? What if…shaking his head he clung to his brother’s side as they approached the doctor’s office. First they came into a bright coloured waiting room and while his parents spoke to the nurse at the counter Sherlock pulled Mycroft over into a corner.

The woman who came out of the office door a few minutes later was looking kind, but she smelled like father did and it made Sherlock scrunch his nose up and stand in front of Mycroft. His brother seemed contend to read a book that was ‘age appropriate’ - Sherlock hated the word - and remained silent. The doctor looked him over and held her hand out to him. Sherlock gave her points for not flinching when he growled at her in return.

“Hello Sherlock. My name’s Anne and I’m a doctor here. Nice to meet you”, she said, voice warm. But Sherlock didn’t feel comforted the way she hoped. He backed up a step and kept glaring at her, silent until his mummy prodded his side.

“Now Sherlock. Be nice and say hello”, she prompted. Sherlock just looked at her sullenly. It took Mycroft nudging him in the thigh with his foot for him to nod and look up at the woman.

“Hello Anne. You shouldn’t lie to people. I know you aren’t happy to see me”, Sherlock said and didn’t even wince when Mycroft kicked him again. He didn’t care about proper behaviour. He didn’t want to talk to that woman.

“Now Sherlock, what would make you think that?”, the woman asked, but her eyes were tight.

“I can smell it. And your hair looks like nanny’s does when she’s right sick of me”, Sherlock said sullenly, leaning back further against Mycroft’s legs.

“You can smell it? Why don’t you come with me into my office and tell me more about the things you can smell?”, she asked, completely ignoring the nanny comment. Sherlock grit his teeth, but Mycroft was prodding him with the book now, so Sherlock nodded and turned to his brother.  
“Stay here. I’ll be back soon”, he said and then gave his parents a look that said they better not leave before he came back. Then he turned back to the doctor, who was looking at him with a fond smile, though her eyes were still tight.  
“Sure. Go ahead”, Sherlock said and followed the woman into her office.

 

When he emerged an hour later Mycroft was still there and even mummy and father were sitting next to him, talking with each other softly. Sherlock frowned when they got up and stepped into the office. What did they need to talk to the doctor about? He was fine. Sure the woman had asked all kinds of weird questions and had him answer stupid riddles. But he was fine, and right sick of the hospital. So he went over to Mycroft and curled up against his side, yawning.

“What are you reading? Read to me?”, he requested and then smiled when Mycroft simply nodded and kept reading on, only that now he was reading out loud. It was different from what Mycroft usually read him because this was a school book, but Sherlock still listened and let his brother’s voice lull him to sleep.

He woke an hour later when his parents were nudging him awake. They looked weird, like they were happy and sad at the same time, but Mycroft was smiling so nothing bad had happened. They took him out of the hospital and into the busy London streets, where Sherlock got to ride a double-decker bus and they checked out the London Eye and had ice creme. It was really nice and Sherlock felt right at home, especially since every now and again he’d feel a warm pull inside him, a spark of contentment that had him grinning broadly even when his father took his hand to cross the street. Of course he still shook it off as soon as he could and clambered back to Mycroft’s side. But London was great and he let mummy carry him when he got sleepy and didn’t do more than growl when it was time to go home in the evening. He had to go to London again.


	6. Mycroft 1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I didn't put this chapter up when it was chronologically due. I completely forgot that I had a scene that was supposed to be here. m_._m  
> That's what you get for not having a beta reader. I promise I'll do my best to stick with chronology in the future and as an apology you get three parts today u.u

**September 1986**

When he'd told Sherlock that he would leave for school in autumn his little brother hadn't quite understood what he meant. After all Mycroft had left for school every day for as long as he could remember. But once he’d explained the concept of boarding school, Sherlock had tried to argue against it because he didn't want his brother to leave. Sherlock was convinced that Mycroft needed him to protect him. And when he'd learnt that Mycroft would go to London for school, little Sherlock had not only been worried but also envious. Thrown into the mix was also anger at Mycroft’s teachers, but that had nothing to do with the schedule or the location and more with what they thought of Mycroft.

Before he could attend Westminster School Mycroft had had to visit with their school counsellor and the coordinator. The school prided itself on their highly variable curriculum aimed to give everyone the best tutoring available. Their time table was based on a course system with a set of mandatory courses surrounded by students' elective subject. Those subjects had been the main reason for his visit. So while Sherlock, mummy and father had been out eating ice creme Mycroft had talked with the two Alphas about what he wanted to learn. The school was an all Beta boys only school and the teachers were careful to not admit someone close to being diagnosed. They claimed that the presence of unbonded students would disturb the schedule and bonded pairs were known to speed up diagnosis in their peers. So they watched every student closely while they worked out the schedule with the boy in question.

The counsellor had mostly spend her time listening and sometimes asked a curious but tame question regarding his family and friends. She had been a little weary due to Sherlock's diagnosis. It had been unofficial at that time, but Mycroft had told them Sherlock believed himself to be an Alpha and expected to be treated accordingly. They seemed to be both appalled at the idea of premature diagnosis and impressed at how level headed Mycroft was.

Two hours later he'd left with a time table that included as little PE as he could get away with as well as extracurricular debate, politics, rhetorics and three languages. He'd also wanted to put economics into the mix, but the coordinator had refused because economics was a class for ages 15 and above. Mycroft had silently vowed to have that rule changed by next year.  
The counsellor had also given him a preliminary diagnosis of Alpha, which fit quite well into what Mycroft wanted.

Of course Sherlock hadn't accepted any of those developments easily. He didn’t want his brother to leave and he especially didn’t want him treated wrong. As such little Sherlock had been especially affronted at the diagnosis and it had taken Mycroft weeks to argue the point that it was just preliminary and being thought of as an Alpha opened a lot of doors for him. That didn’t exactly sooth Sherlock, but it was true nonetheless. Being concidered an Alpha meant no one thought to suggest things like home ec along with needlework and child care. Mycroft had no interest in any of these topics, which made him wonder if Sherlock might not be wrong. No matter that he'd correctly predicted all their cousins already. Mycroft didn't want to be an Omega. Especially not a stay at home Omega like mummy. He knew that she was happy with this, but Mycroft wouldn't. Already now at the tender age of 11 years school was the only thing that kept his mind minimally entertained. The only truly interesting thing was talking to his brother and it'd be a few years still before Sherlock would be fit for real conversation. Right now it was more Mycroft lecturing on a topic and Sherlock asking smart questions, which was an improvement from school, but still not what he wanted, what he needed.

Once he’d started Westminster School it hadn’t quite lived up to his expectations. Elite institute, or so they said. Forming the brightest minds of the next generation, or so they claimed. His classmates weren’t any smarter than the morons he’d left behind. PE was still as tedious as back home. And the older students still didn’t allow him to stick around. No matter that he could do their homeworks better than they could. So just like at home he stuck to himself and read Sherlock’s weekly rants. Even before starting school Sherlock was able to read and write, Mycroft had made sure of it. And he’d made sure to get his brother a proper letter set, even if Sherlock liked the coloured pencils a little too much. Mycroft dutifully read the colourful letters where Sherlock complained about nanny and dad and that he wasn’t allowed out of the house and he made sure to send replies weekly.

It especially grated on Sherlock that Mycroft was in London and he wasn’t allowed to visit. Ever since the visits to doctor Anne his brother had been fascinated with the city and used every chance he could to try and visit. His parents however weren’t interested in indulging their youngest son and Mycroft knew why. Sherlock was already a bit of a dirty secret in their family, known only to those that actually had to, like his classmates. Sherlock was after all a prematurely diagnosed child who insisted to be treated according to their diagnosis and who didn’t seem to understand what the word Beta meant. Mycroft knew his brother understood the concept, or at least acknowledged it. But Mycroft wasn’t willing to tell his parents that Sherlock had chosen to ignore it. It would just bring in unneeded unrest into an already strained situation. 

But it annoyed Mycroft nonetheless that part of it had been, and was still, taken out on him. He hadn’t even wanted to leave home, but his parents had insisted he go and apparently Dr. Anne had thought it would help Sherlock grow as a person if he were removed from Mycroft’s influence since Mycroft was actively ‘supporting his fantasy’. After all the child should grow up as a child and not as an Alpha. Mycroft hadn’t had the heart to tell his parents that Sherlock had never thought of himself as a child. Or rather, that being a child, for Sherlock, was secondary to being an Alpha. His brother didn’t care that everyone around him thought of him as a child. He also didn’t care that Mycroft himself thought of himself as a child. For Sherlock his brother was an Omega and nothing Mycroft said or did would change that. Mycroft accepted that and acted accordingly. Of course it would be nice to not have to worry about it, he should need to have to worry about it. But he had to, so he took the path of least resistance, even if it grated on him.

Having his little brother hold the door open for him and try to sooth his boo-boos had grown old very fast after all. But not having to indulge Sherlock on that any more, was little consolation for what Westminster School was promising to put him through.


	7. Sherlock 1987

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out to be weirdly season appropriate.  
> Merry Christmas everybody!

**October 1987**

His parents made him visit doctor Anne twice more over the course of that summer, but Sherlock had gone along only because it meant seeing London again. He’d developed quite a fascination for the big city, even though it was never quite as satisfying as the first time. But since the third visit had ended early - Sherlock had brought the woman a pair of lizards to look it, knowing she was dead afraid of the animals - there had never been a fourth visit.

His parents had then attempted to have other doctors visit him, or having him visit other doctors, but Sherlock knew how to destroy those plans. He knew quite well how to throw a temper tantrum. Mycroft had taught him and Mycroft was the best when it came to manipulating adults. So he’d raged and cried and called for his mummy in a wholly undignified way until he was allowed to leave the doctor’s office. Or he’d hidden all over the cottage until the doctor had given up and left again. Then Sherlock had allowed Mycroft lure him out with a treat or a story and he’d grinned mischievously as Mycroft lectured him on not causing trouble for the grown ups. Sherlock however had been able to see the indulgent twinkling in his eyes so he knew Mycroft didn’t really mean it. It was just easier for him to scold Sherlock himself instead of making his little brother sit through a scolding by Siger, who had no patience for his son’s troublemaking tendencies. Not that he’d physically discipline either of them, but for Sherlock having to sit still for an hour was already punishment in itself and everybody knew that.

Because of these evasion tactics, the date of diagnosis on Sherlock’s ID was 25.11.1986, the date of his school entry examination. It was supposed to be a routine appointment with the local physician to ensure that Sherlock was mentally and physically able to enter school next summer.  
But the doctor had perked up when Sherlock had asked the beta nurse if she wasn’t annoyed with everyone treating her wrong. The woman had smiled at him and said everything was fine and like it should be, but Sherlock had huffed and told her she shouldn’t try to fool him and that her Alpha was a very scary woman. He’d then proceeded to hold the door for the nurse and the doctor had done his best to calm the raging nurse. Sherlock meanwhile had just watched with wide eyes and asked the doctor why everyone was treating her wrong when she was obviously an Omega. It had actually baffled him because she was old enough to know such things, right, adults always seemed to know as well.

The question had been enough for the doc to cancel all further appointments for the day and what should have been a twenty minutes affair turned into a three hours examination marathon at which end stood an official diagnosis as well as a list of courses he should take in addition as well as before entering school next fall. Sherlock had not been interested in any of this and had dozed on his mother’s lap as the two women, her and the doctor, talked about how to best ‘support’ him. Sherlock didn’t need to be supported. He knew what to do with himself and others. And after his mummy told him that he was supposed to visit ‘ethics classes’ to prepare him for school, Sherlock had told her that he didn’t need them. He’d been quite indignant and firm on the point and had gone so far as to not even talk to Mycroft until he was promised no ethics classes in his future.

When school had finally started in September Sherlock had been all for it. No matter that Mycroft had told him school would be dull and tedious on a good day, going to school meant going out of the house and meeting new people. It meant seeing others and learning new things and Sherlock was all for learning new things. After the first week he wasn’t quite as sure because no one seemed to get him, or themselves for that matter. It was frustrating to see them doing it all wrong. At least adults had been doing it right. But here, in his group of imbeciles - a great word Uncle Michael had taught him - he seemed to be the only one who knew how to do anything. He was the only one who could read and write and the only one who got maths. He was the only one who could play an instrument and he was the only one who knew how to interact with others properly. Really, his classmates needed the ethics courses, not him.

Sherlock of course had made sure to behave properly, no matter what Miss Miller had to say about it. He wouldn’t work with Shanon. Shanon should work with Eddie. It was only proper. He could maybe play with Steven, and with Jeremy, but only if Phil was around as well. He didn’t even interact with Sally past a nod or a hello when they met. He didn’t care that he should try to make friends. It wasn’t proper of him to play with Omegas. Only Mycroft was fine, because Mycroft was family. And Jeremy was okay because Phil was lenient and let him run wild anyways.

Of course the teacher didn’t really care about his opinion on the matter and got really frustrated with him. It didn’t help that Sherlock told Kara from high school that she shouldn’t go behind Alexander’s back. And then they were bonded two weeks later. After that his words started creeping everyone out as well.

Now the first four weeks of school were over and no one questioned that he’d only play with Steven and Jeremy and that only when Phil was around. Of course they also said he was cursing them with how he treated them, which was ridiculous. Sherlock just noticed those things better than others did. And he didn’t hide what he knew. At least with all the trouble about who was Alpha and Omega in school no one really asked about age appropriateness, so when he brought one of Mycroft’s books for reading period Miss Miller didn’t complain. She only requested that he didn’t scare the other students too much with his Anatomy Textbook. Sherlock only shrugged and went back to reading. It wasn’t like any of them were interested in what he was reading. They just wanted to know who their bondmate was and who was the mate for their siblings and was little Susan Hendrickson from C class really an Alpha?

At home things were quiet more than usual again now that Mycroft was off to boarding school once more. It still bothered Sherlock that his brother was away with no one to look after him. What if some Alpha did something with him? His classmates didn’t know how to properly conduct themselves and Sherlock was sure it wasn’t better at boarding school, no matter how much older those students were. Mycroft of course kept rolling his eyes and insisting he could take care of himself, but Sherlock missed him and worried for him and wanted him back home. Their parents didn’t really understand him and it was more obvious now that Mycroft wasn’t around to buffer any more. They just didn’t get him the way Mycroft did. They couldn’t appreciate him for what he was and especially his father got along with him even less. And since their mummy always took father’s side, deferred to him in all things, it made for strained relationships at home.

Sherlock for his part just made sure to keep to himself and not worry his mummy. If it meant sending letters and pictures to Mycroft every week, so be it. At least Mycroft didn’t ignore him or ask him stupid questions. He accepted that Sherlock needed to hold the door for him and was more concerned if Mycroft was fine even when he was bleeding from a cut himself. Mycroft understood him, understood that he didn’t want to play with cousin Tracy because she was dumb and he couldn’t play with Sylvia because she was an Omega. And Steven wasn’t interested in playing with him. He was more interested in getting into nanny’s skirts, which was stupid because she was an Alpha as well, not that anyone asked him.

Sherlock just hoped school would be over fast so Mycroft could be back to read to him in person, not just send him letters about books he should read or riddles he should solve. And maybe if he was good Santa would bring him his Omega for Christmas.


	8. Greg 1987

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the Greg chapters you've all been waiting for. And since I received more and more questions about what could be expected when, here's a POV overview for the next 14 parts, which will lead us up to the series :)
> 
> Mycroft, Greg, John, John, Sherlock, Mycroft, Sherlock, Mycroft, Greg, Sherlock, John, Sherlock, Greg, Mycroft

With grit teeth Greg Lestrade watched the line in front of him advance. He was right in the middle of it, but from all around he could hear whispers and sneers as he moved with the other cadets to receive his locker number. They couldn’t see why he should be here, would argue his placement on the force to his face if he confronted them. They were correct in their assumption that he’d only gained admission because he’d visited the ‘Academy of the Armed Forces’. It was one of the few ways a Beta could get into a public service position like police officers. Betas, as everyone kept telling him, were more suited for positions as drivers, or office clerks or teachers. Not the full force positions of police officer or military. But Greg wouldn’t stand for it. He’d trained hard to get this far.

As the youngest of five it had never been his designation to achieve a high position. He was after all the runt and his older siblings had pretty much leeched his parents dry by the time he was ready to enter High School. But he’d done his best and switched school so he could take his A-levels and not be forced into some kind of menial job like his sis, who was handing out lunch at the local High School cafeteria. Not that he looked down on her for her job. Sabrina was loving the contact with the children even though she had four at home already. It just wasn’t what Greg wanted for himself. He would become a respected Alpha and if his body decided to take his time with it, he’d just do it as a Beta instead.

That believe had only evolved after he’d come to the Academy. He’d worked hard to gain his place at the prestigious Academy that was set out to educate the officers of the next generation, as well as help them find their soul mate if they had the same goal. A year full of fun it was supposed to be. With diagnosis and classes and meeting the person he would share his life with. 

For Greg it had been a year of disappointment. There’d been two guy in his year, who’d come to the Academy diagnosed. The two Omega had both bonded quick, which hadn’t come as a surprise in an Alpha heavy environment like the Academy of the Armed Forces. Greg wasn’t even sure how already diagnosed Omega had received a place, but maybe it had been a rather recent development. Or what came after happened every year and it had been a calculated move on the side of the administration. Because after their mates were diagnosed and the bond had formed completely, it was like the floodgates were opened. By Christmas Greg was the only one undiagnosed in the whole building and the doctor was getting more and more restless with his monthly exams. Something had to be wrong for him to not react to the strong hormonal pressure from the Alpha and Omega around him. Sure, he still held up well in classes, both the PT and the academic part, but he should also have shown some signs of secondary puberty already. But he didn’t and because of that no one seemed to be willing to appreciate his achievements properly. It was distressing, how they all seemed to think he should do worse than the others now. They even thought he’d come in after the Omegas, no matter that their secondary puberty came with a redistribution in muscle mass and body fat that left them weaker than they were before. It seemed like they thought he was child or defective in some way. Not ready to play in the big people’s world.  
He graduated at the top of his class on spite and sleepless nights.

But here and now, standing in the reception hall of the Police Academy, that sentiment was still around, stronger even. Nonetheless Greg held his head high and advanced in the line until he received his uniform and the key to his locker. He didn’t care that the officer handing the stuff out was looking down her nose at him. He didn’t react to the shove he got when he didn’t move away fast enough for the Alpha next in line. He just grit his teeth and walked down the corridor to locker 503, located in room 250.  
The room was already overflowing with Alphas and they all glanced at him before dismissing him and going back to their own conversations. Silently Greg opened his locker and placed his uniform in its position before he started to change. Greg could pretty much feel the stares, the Alphas watching him and searching for ways in which he was inferior to them. But Greg didn’t rise to the bait. He’d beaten every last hormone driven Alpha at the Academy and he would do the same here. He’d not be found lacking just because his scent marks still screamed ‘Beta’ and not ‘Alpha’ as they should. Because there was no way he’d be diagnosed as an Omega. No way in hell.

Sometimes Greg wondered if his mate had the same trouble. He wondered if somewhere out there was his Omega, trapped in a child’s scent, waiting for his body to finally catch up to where his mind already stood. Greg was sure his mate would be male. Not that he’d mind a female mate, but when he thought mate he also thought male more often than not. So a man it would be. He hoped the other hadn’t been diagnosed yet. No matter the trouble he might go through because if this. After all if he was diagnosed already, his mate, his love, was out there undefended, with no one to look out for him, prey to hungry predators like the Alphas that were staring at him now, taking in his broad shoulders and trained body. He knew he wasn’t as physically impressive as they were. Second puberty didn’t only come with a new scent. It came with new muscle mass and new metabolism and new instincts. And for Alphas they were all geared towards fight and dominance. They were at an advantage, but Greg wouldn’t let it drag him down. He’d train and work hard and then he’d come out on top. If it meant renouncing sleep for the foreseeable future so be it.


	9. Mycroft 1987

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the blotched up posting and I hope I don't confuse anyone. I added a Chapter 6 in the place it should be in. It's another Mycroft chapter. Please make sure to read it before continuing and I'm sorry for the inconvenience.

After one year at Westminster School Mycroft had to admit it hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. Even if it meant leaving home and staying in London for months on end. He had more independence here and could focus more on himself, even if he still exchanged letters with Sherlock every week. And after one year at Westminster School Mycroft had already determined both his most favourite and least favourite person and activity around. Because yes, his room mate counted as an activity and his rhetoric class counted as a person, which nicely killed two birds with one stone.

His room mate, George, was one of the most obnoxious children Mycroft had ever met. He was actually a year older than him and they were only the same grade because George’s parents were ambassadors so he had just come back from Mycroft didn’t really care about. Unfortunately George made it a point to tell the story to whoever stood still long enough to listen to him. He kept insisting on how important his parents were and how he went to school with the princess of whatever-backward-country-he’d-stayed-at-last and he how he had a mate in other-stupid-country-he-was-born-in. Mycroft had stopped listening after the first time he’d heard the story and had filed the whole information package under U as in UNimportant, to be reviewed only in the unlikely circumstance that it became relevant. Unfortunately his own disinterest had made George all the more convinced that Mycroft needed to be taught about his greatness and it was only with great self control that Mycroft could keep himself from doing something truly embarrassing. He didn’t however keep himself from leaving false politics homework around so that George would get cussed out by their teacher once he handed his own copy in. After all someone as important as George shouldn’t have to do his own homework. Mycroft ignored the sullen looks and the following hate-filled gaze when he was in fact praised for his eloquence. He even managed to keep his smug smile in check.

Unfortunately roommate stupidity was not an acceptable reason to request a switch in room mates. And George never took the second step of pranking or otherwise bullying Mycroft, so there was no evidence of animosity past the dark looks George sent him. His room mate seemed contend to give him the silent treatment and Mycroft was grateful for it. He was also grateful for the walk-man Sherlock gave him for Christmas as it allowed him to drone out his room mate’s friends that were prone to hanging out in their room.

The trouble with George however was more than compensated by the rhetorics classes and the economics books his classmates showed him. He was, by far, the youngest in their small group, but amongst them it didn’t matter. The group consisted of five students and one teacher, who was also teaching their Latin classes and who didn’t mind that they used his class for vocabulary practice or drawing parallels between Plato and today’s politics. The man only drew a line when they started to stray into vicious maligning of annoying classmates, which they all seemed to suffer from. It was all fun and games as long as they kept their words focused on politicians. After all they’d likely all end up in the their shoes one day, and would have to live with the next generation bad mouthing them.

Only amongst this group, all a good 4 years his senior, he felt at home. They didn’t treat him like a stupid child and actually let him bring in his own suggestions to their discussion. They didn’t mind that he knew more than them on some topics already because he was always willing to learn more about whatever they knew best. It also didn’t hurt that they were all rather attractive. Yes, Mycroft admitted it to himself, he had a crush. Or rather, he had four crushes, one for each week of the month, who all liked him the way he was and who made sure to include him even though he was so much younger and so unlike them. They were all in the same year and all in the same classes and they all did sports for fun. Mycroft couldn’t understand it, but sharing class with his fit group of friends four times a week soon had him lay off the chocolate in times without exams and actually make an effort during PE. It got him mercilessly teased by Sherlock as soon as his brother found out, which was almost immediately. Luckily Sherlock didn’t figure out the crushes since the whole sweets thing had him confused. At the time Sherlock had learned of it his little brother had been about ready to enter school and his whole life had revolved around candy and how to sneak it out of nanny’s pockets. It had been frankly appalling what a good pick-pocket his brother already was.

By the time they both returned to school - Mycroft for his second year and Sherlock for his first - they were both quite happy with not seeing each other every day. Staying home for the summer had made it obvious how far apart they’d grown and how deep the chasm was between them. The year alone with his parents and new specialists and made Sherlock withdraw even more and his year at Westminster had made Mycroft more independent. It was a shame that they seemed to communicate better in letters than in person these days because he wasn’t willing to let Sherlock smother him any longer. No matter that his little brother now had doctor’s permission in the form of an official diagnosis.  
So Mycroft was quite happy to be back with annoying George - still his room mate - and his group of rhetoricians, who could appreciate that he laid off the chocolate and who still didn’t make fun of him when he was exhausted after running up the stairs with them. They’d just grin and offer to carry him next time. Maybe it was good that he only spoke to Sherlock in letters these days.

Especially since in the evening, when he sat at his desk to revise his vocabulary, he felt this strange sense of contentment as he looked out into the dark streets of London. No matter that George was still obnoxious and couldn’t understand the concept of doing his own work. And ignoring the fact that classes were still to easy and his classmates were still to stupid. Mycroft had to admit he was happy here.


	10. Greg 1988

**May 1988**

It had been seven months since he’d started Police training and Greg was on his last leg. He was still undiagnosed, still the only Beta in his unit and still didn’t have the trust of his classmates. They simply didn’t trust a Beta to have their back, no matter how often he beat them in physical training and bested them on the shooting range.  
For now Greg fought for his place in the unit and the respect, albeit grudging, from his instructors. They had, of course, nothing but praise for his mind, but his body never received the recognition it deserved. They approved of his value in infiltration and interrogation. After all someone who had the scent mark up of a child couldn’t be threatening and opened new paths of gathering intel. It had made Greg grit his teeth and nod politely before he went downstairs for another round in the gym.

The days his muscles burned from the exertion and his head hurt as he fought to keep up with everyone else physically. And while his comrades went home to their mates, he went out for another run and then sat alone in his room in his parents’ house and wished for the cooling touch of his Omega to ease him. Because he’d have cold hands. Cold hands and a warm smile and he’d let Greg rest his head in his lap for as long as he wanted before they went to sleep together. And in the night, when they were laying beneath cool sheets, warming them with their bodies, he’d wrap his arms around his Omega and nuzzle his neck and stroke his sides and kiss him and bite him and leave his marks all over him even before he rolled him onto his stomach and fucked him.

It was wishful thinking, Greg knew that, but it was what made him keep going on a bad day and lifted his spirit when practice was tedious. He’d given up hoping that he’d meet his Omega soon, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t dream of him. He’d also given up hopeing to get diagnosed soon. After all if you weren’t diagnosed by the time you were 19 it was just as likely to be diagnosed at sixty as it was to be diagnosed at 20, and those percentages weren’t exactly big. Sure, it was more likely to be diagnosed late than to be diagnosed prematurely. But there was also a ever growing percentage of those who were never diagnosed at all. But Greg refused to believe the most common prejudice concerning late diagnosis. He kept his ears shut to the whispered conversations, the rumours and sneers behind his back. He didn’t believe that his Omega was dead. He refused to accept that maybe he didn’t have a mate out there.

If he didn’t have one, then why did he dream of pale skin and soft hair? Why did he think of stroking a warm back and rubbing his hands over rounded hips? Why did he see himself wrapping his arms around a pregnant Omega, placing soft kisses on his shoulder? It wasn’t just wishful thinking on his part and he wouldn’t let anyone tell him otherwise. He wouldn’t let his colleagues tease him about it. Their words were air to him and he wouldn’t let them tempt him into doing something rash. He had no reason to listen to them. No reason to let their words affect him. No reason to loose his position in the unit over something that wasn’t true anyways.

Greg knew there was an Omega for him. He just had to be patient and he’d meet him. In time his Omega would come to him. He’d be diagnosed and all those that looked down on him now would eat their words. He just had to make it through the Police Academy. He simply had to make it through the Police Academy and then he’d rise through the ranks on his own merits and he’d earn his place in the force just like everyone else. Who cared if he’d have to work twice as hard to get the recognition he deserved.

Maybe, if he told himself often enough, he might start believing it. And maybe once he believed it it would carry him through another round of sparring with Alphas who didn’t hold back when their fists connected with his face. Not that Greg wanted them to hold back. Criminals wouldn’t hold back either. But the anger fueled hits still made his ears ring and his teeth rattle. They didn’t want him here and made no move to hide it. Everyone else got a hand up he got a laugh and a teasing comment. Everyone else got the message that today’s class was cancelled, somehow no one had his number.  
Yes, he just needed to keep telling himself everything would work out and then it might.

With teeth bared Greg stepped out into the darkness outside the training building. Most everyone else had already gone home or back to the barracks, but he wouldn’t, not yet. No matter that he lived with his parents halfway across London and not on campus like others who came from further away. He had another few miles to run before he was done with his additional allotted time, the extra miles and extra weights he’d assigned himself to keep up where everyone else just let their bodies run their course. So what if he’d be taking this road again just because it lead past Westminster School? Just because it added another three miles to what was already a long course didn’t mean it wasn’t a nice track to run. Plus, he always felt just a little lighter when he returned from his evening run, and after days like he had them, there was nothing better than running past the illuminated boarding school and feeling like this was what he was supposed to do.


	11. John 1990

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of thanks a lot to kookookarli for taking the time to beta this and help me get my points across.
> 
> Also, so sorry it took me so long to get this chapter ready <<"
> 
> I won't promise that I'll be faster with the next, because I have no idea what the new term will throw at me study wise. Just be ensured that I haven't abandoned you. Even if it might seem like is. The story is written. It just needs to be cleaned up and posted...
> 
> Love you all  
> Eryn

**October 1990**

At 19 years of age, John was more than ready to move out.

His sister had left two years ago, still at odds with their parents and she hadn't been back since. It hadn't been an amicable parting and John was sure that, if it weren't for their father's depression, Harry would have left even earlier. She'd held out an admirable four years and made sure to stay in touch with John after heading to the Academy. She still teased him about his Omega virtues and the fact that he'd had a steady boyfriend for the last 4 years.

Or rather, an ex-boyfriend. A year ago Derek had left for Academy without looking back. He’d always been annoyed that John’s heats were still non-sexual and that John wasn’t interested in anything that went past petting. They’d been close friends and John had always felt like it was enough; after all it had also always been a beneficial arrangement for both of them, a partnership of convenience in a way.

After two years of being bothered by every potential Alpha at school, John had gotten himself a protector who didn't hesitate to make his claim. And in return Derek had gotten the reputation that came with dating the only Omega in the whole school. The one who had refused every advance before.

They'd spend time together in and out of school and John had cared for Derek and used him as a person to focus on. He knew that most of his caretaker mentality was due to his biology, and John had learned a while ago that it was better not to fight it. So he had simply gone with it when the impulse hit him to make lunch for both of them, or when he saw a ball of soft yarn for a pair of gloves. Derek had gotten to show off and enjoy homemade food where every other couple seemed to be caught in a constant struggle about who topped. With them it had always been quiet and easy and they'd both enjoyed their time. After all John had known his role and Derek had been aware of his own. He was, in the end, just a placeholder; a token standing in for the Alpha that would bond and breed John once he met him. The idea alone already had his toes curling.

For John the first year after diagnosis had been agony and confusion, both in school and at home. But over the following five years, he'd grown more comfortable in his role. He’d learned how to balance classes, homework, and housework, and he knew he had more than a few people awed with how easy it seemed.

Never mind that it gave him sleepless nights when his mum had to pretty much tie dad to their bed so he wouldn't do something stupid, or that Harry was only as civil as needed to keep the fighting down before she headed out again.

It had gotten better for him after he’d hooked up with Derek. Finally he had had someone whose happiness he could put above everyone else’s. The strain of caring for his family hadn't completely vanished, but it had become more manageable. His home hadn't been his primary concern any longer, it had been his pseudo-Alpha. And if he had used Derek more than he should, John didn't care about it. It had helped him deal with everything; when he could just forget about his parents for a while, and instead worry about his boyfriend.

They’d stayed in touch through most of Derek's Academy year, but in spring he'd bonded and moved to his Alpha's home. Ironically, he turned out to be an Omega as well after playing the role of scary boyfriend for four years. John thought it was hilarious, and so did Harry. She had, of course, only heard about it from his letters, but that was okay for John. It was nice that they exchanged civil letters and occasionally they even talked on the phone. He wouldn’t have minded more of that, but calls were limited to when Harry had time and was in the mood for it, which was the safest option for everybody. John was sure if he ever called first and caught her drunk he would say things that he would later grow to regret. And even if he got Clara on the phone, Harry's pretty Alpha bondmate - yes, his very Alpha sister had gotten herself an Alpha for a bondmate with no Omega in sight - it would be just as likely that he would say something he'd regret. Something like 'how about you ditch her and come take care of me?'. So he left the calling to Harry and made sure to keep their letters on schedule.

This year it was finally his turn to move out and go to the Academy. No matter how much his mother had pleaded him to take a place at their local Academy, he had refused. He had worked too hard on his A-levels to take a spot at an middle-of-nowhere-we-take-everybody-in Academy like the one in his hometown. In fact he had even worked hard enough that by Christmas, he had received three letters of approval, two of which came with a full scholarship. Of course he'd also received one refusal, but the Academy of the Armed Forces was notoriously stingy when it came to the admission of Omega. But better apply and be refused, than to not apply at all and keep guessing.

Just one month after moving out however, John already regretted his decision to accept the scholarship from the Hatfield Academy for the Early Diagnosed. It had seemed like a good idea at first, when he’d been stressed out and lonely and pushing off unwanted attention. After all Hatfield only accepted students who'd been diagnosed for at least a year already and would also invite younger and older unbonded students for events like the Halloween ball. Unfortunately it had turned out to be a lot of heartbreak and frustration.

They had all arrived at the beginning of September and in the first two weeks those who had met their bondmate moved from the communal dorm rooms to a couple’s room. The unbonded were left behind and tension was quickly rising as the Alphas tried to find their Omega, and the Omega fought over who was best suited for a strong Alpha. No matter that all the couples around had already bonded. A year or more after diagnosis, bonding was happening on sight. Those that were left would have to look elsewhere.

Meanwhile, John sat in his dorm room and wondered why he hadn't taken the stipend to attend Oxford Academy. Or the one for the Royal Medical Academy. Sure, he would have needed a part time job to afford living in London, but the RMA put out the most famous doctors in the country.

But no, John had wanted to visit the Academy for the Early Diagnosed, foolishly hoping that his Alpha would be waiting for him. His six years of solitude should have taught him better.

But he had dreamed and he had hoped, and now some idiot was banging on the door to the dorm room and John just wanted to be left alone. Ever since last evening he'd felt miserable in a way he hadn't felt before. He was fairly sure it was his heat approaching, though as far as he knew, that should still be a few weeks out. After the first year they'd come steady as clockwork every March, July and November. Maybe the new environment had triggered him - never mind the Alpha smell that was all but permeating the whole building. Or maybe he was just coming down with something. That would also explain the heavy sweating and the deep muscle ache.

"Oi, John. John, get up. You need to get up", someone was saying, but John just sighed and batted the hand away.

"'m sick. Leave me alone", he grumbled. The banging on the door was intensifying and he could hear his dorm mates cursing. Why were they not in class yet? And why was Mark pulling him to his feet?

"Sorry mate, but ya need to get up and come with me right now, before those stupid Alphas break down the door", Mark urged, which got him John's complete attention as well as no more resistance. Alphas usually meant trouble. Especially since they had no business being in the Omega dorm area.

"What do you mean, Alpha breaking the door down?", John asked. He was standing on shaky legs now and felt the distinct urge to get back into bed, preferably on his stomach and without his pants. The smell in the room was getting better by the second, but Mark was pulling him away from his bed and towards the bathroom.

"Come on. Move. Your body has apparently decided that Christmas came early. You're putting off heat pheromones like crazy. The others are doing their best to keep the door shut, but if you don't want to be buggered by the five of them at once I suggest you go take a shower and lock yourself in. Sandy is already off fetchin' the nurse", Mark told him. Where moments ago the idea of getting on all fours hadn't been all that off putting to John, the knowledge that there were at least five Alphas waiting, all of whom were not right, but unlikely to listen, was like a bucket of cold water. It wouldn't hold long. John knew all about the biology involved. The pheromones would win if he didn't get a heat-shot soon. As long as he stayed in the shower, all he would smell would be his own pheromones before they were dragged down the drain. It would dampen the effects for a while, and maybe help him keep a clear head. It wasn't the ideal way of dealing with it, but it would work until the nurse could get to him.

John hurried into the bathroom, while Mark guarded the door from outside. He stripped and pulled his clothes with him underneath the spray. Now that he was naked he could really feel it, the slick and sticky feel of natural lubricant smearing between his ass cheeks and his thighs. It was both disgusting and alluring at the same time, and John made sure to wash it all away. He had no wish to give any of the vultures outside the wrong idea.

He was saved by nurse Jensen, who bullied his way past the Alphas outside the door and then unlocked the bathroom door from outside before making his way into the icy shower to administer the hormonal blocker. John knew it wouldn't help with the symptoms of the heat, but it would keep his hormonal output to a minimum so as to not attract all Alphas around.

When he was ready to come out of the shower he still felt miserable and horny, but his mates had aired the room and changed his sheets so at least the dorm didn't smell of potential mating any longer. He didn't fight them when they all insisted on accompanying him down to the special 'heat dorm', a featureless single room in a corridor full of featureless single rooms in the basement, meant for cases like him. In it was a bed, a desk plus chair, and a tiny bathroom. No shower. No windows. Just him and his heat for the week it would take for the symptoms to die down again. At times like this, John hated himself.


	12. John 1991

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, due to time issues this chapter comes to you unbetad, but edited to hell and back <<"
> 
> Also, for those interested, I wrote [a bit of meta](http://entangledwood.tumblr.com/post/47621830197/academy-meta) dealing with the whole Academy system, giving a bit more insight in just what role they play in the education system and why John did what he did.
> 
> And if you want more, or rather, something original written just for you, make sure to check out the writers auction at tumblr, where for a donation to the OTW (which is essentially a donation to the AO3) you can get 5000 words of porn (or fluff or whatever) [written by me](http://ao3auction.tumblr.com/entangled) ([or a lot of awesome folks who are up for grabs as well :)](http://ao3auction.tumblr.com/authorlist))

**August 1991**

John’s twentieth birthday had been a quiet celebration. He’d graduated from the Academy and returned home just the weekend before and most of his focus had been on getting his university applications straight. After all he only had two more weeks before he’d move to London.

Now that he was actively looking for a spot at one of the universities John felt even more angry at himself for not visiting one of the other Academies. The Royal Medical Academy would have been best, but Oxford Academy would have worked just as well. They were both known for a scientific profile and for bringing forth great researchers and medical professionals. A report card from either Academy was like a guarantee for a spot in a University. But John had been lead by hormones and what had it got him?

He was busy trying to prove to the faculty of the medical school of the Queen Mary, University of London that he actually knew things that went past nursing and cleaning and should really be a doctor instead of a nurse. It was humiliating how he had to rely on his A-levels to prove he was smart enough for university. And still his Academy seemed like a red flag, a warning sign that this was not a proper researcher or medical professional but instead a stay at home Omega.

The Academy for the Early Diagnosed was, after all, known for putting a heavy emphasis on so called bond education. The Omega got cooking and cleaning and nursing while the Alphas had extra PE, finance and home repair.

John had grown tired of that education policy pretty quickly, because PE for Omegas was basically some light jogging and maybe a bit of expressive dancing. No bruises, no physical contact. So he’d made sure to join a local gym as soon as possible, paid for by the money his parents sent every month. His teachers hadn’t been pleased, but there was no way John would share PE classes with Alphas - not that the teachers would have allowed that. The further the year had progressed the more the unbonded Alpha had stared at him like he was their last meal. Of course they treated the other unbonded Omega the same way, but John seemed the only one who wasn’t sex crazed right back. So where the other Omega freely shared their affection, John did Krav Maga and just about dared the Alphas to try and touch him.

The teachers had spent hours trying to convert him to the proper ways of Omega, but John hadn’t listened to a word they’d said. He was sick and tired of patiently waiting for his Alpha to come up on a white stallion to save him from boredom. Hell, John had been tired of waiting five years ago when he’d hooked up with Derek. So all their preaching had fallen on deaf ears and John had argued right back until they’d allowed him to take additional courses in physiology and chemistry. He was, of course, not allowed to actually replace any of his other classes, with colourful names like Crafts I, II and III, Cooking I and II or Advanced Etiquette for Omega. Unfortunately they were all considered essential courses in the spirit of the institute. John still wasn’t sure how he’d overlooked that little gem when he’d signed up.

At least, John figured, he’d never ever starve. After what he’d learnt this last year he would be able to make a three course meal out of a rock, a hand full of twigs and a pot of cream. He also wouldn’t be freaked out by autopsies because their teachers had insisted on preparing whole animals at the end. John was also able to carve wood, knit socks, mend tears and raise whatever or whoever crossed his paths, willing or unwilling, from infancy to Academy age.

John had to admit that the whole psychology aspect of education class had actually been rather interesting. But the university office only read ‘education and child care’ and crossed the course right off the list of helpful subjects. Still, even if Barts wouldn’t take him he’d make sure to find some other job in London.

The city had always felt like home - though never as much as on his first visit. And after living at the Academy this last year John was even more aware of how little he could enjoy his home life. His dad was still depressed, though the medication was helping. Nonetheless it was like walking on a mine field and his mom had to do everything to keep the balance. She did it of course. After all no matter how much they argued she loved her bondmate and John would often find her provoking an argument just so dad would have something to lift his spirit for a bit. Seeing him excited for a while was heart warming, but John knew he couldn’t make that his life. He would never be able to once again put himself under foot of his parents’ crisis and they were getting along well enough without him. After all they’d survived a whole year without him.

While he was staying John of course helped with everything from groceries shopping to laundry ironing. After all mom was busy working and while dad’s medication was helping enough to allow him to keep the household running, it was still slow going. John had easily spotted their relieve when he’d offered to do the shopping and give the lawn a much needed trim. He’d also used some of his newly acquired woodworking skills to fix a broken shutter in Harry’s old room.

It was still her room so it had felt rather weird standing there amongst forgotten books and Omega celebrity posters fixing a wooden frame. He’d made sure to leave the room just as he’d found it before retreating into his own. The one as well still looked like he’d left it - and as it had been ten years ago. Raised bed, desk and chair, armchair and bookshelf. Only the hole under the bed had been redecorated and his old toys had been moved to the attic in favour of more age appropriate entertainment.

He’d have to pack everything up now. He hadn’t taken it to the Academy because he’d moved into a communal dorm there. But now he wasn’t going away for a year. He was leaving for good. Moving out permanently. Making his own way. And that meant he couldn’t afford a new chair and desk right off the bat. He’d already had trouble finding a job as well as flat-share. After all, who wanted to room with an unbonded Omega who’d pay rent with low pay jobs, if he could actually find one? Not the people he wanted to live with.

In the end he’d found Mike, an Omega who’d visited the Royal Medical Academy and was set to start at Bart’s in fall. Mike’s Alpha was still in school so he would be living alone in London for two years before she could join him. This meant that there was room for a flatmate and Mike had been quite relieved to have found another lonely Omega. After all a good 90% of their age-group was already bonded and living with their bondmate.

John had been impressed when he’d heard that Mike was allowed to live alone just two weeks after his Bond formed. Especially since his Alpha was two years younger and a premature bond was prone to trouble. Fortunately the girl’s parents were strict Buddhists, striving to follow Buddha’s example, who’d shed the burden of his dynamic to become a Beta. They were apparently appalled by the bond their daughter had formed and did everything to shield her from Mike. Because of this he could live alone and visit regularly instead of putting his own education on hold in order to be with her.

From what John had heard the girl wasn’t exactly happy with that development. She seemed very eager to get her hands on an Omega and John was sure that if Mike had stayed with her he’d have been dragged around and shown off more than he’d actually gotten cared for.

Still John wasn’t sure if he should congratulate Mike or scratch out his eyes in envy. After all he was still waiting and if his luck held out it would be years before he met his Alpha. Hell, for all he knew, he wouldn’t meet his mate until he was past his fertile years so every chance of having children would be irrevocably lost.

John took a deep breath and focused his thoughts. It wouldn’t help to make up horror fantasies. It especially wouldn’t help in boxing up eight years of clothing - because yes, his initial growth spurt had remained his only one - and 20 years of literature. There was no way he’d leave behind his children books. No matter how stupid it seemed, he wanted them close. They were his precious reminders of the time before that fateful January day. Of the time where his only concern had been to wheedle another story out of dad and avoid Harry’s teasing for his love of Lego.

He’d also take one of his stuffed animals and the necklace grandpa had left him. The jewelry Derek had given him was already boxed up. John wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to wear it again. After all no Alpha was happy to have someone elses’ smell on their Omega.

Maybe with the more expensive pieces he’d go through the trouble of removing all traces of past scents. Then it was just a matter of leaving it beneath his Alpha’s pillow for a few weeks and he’d have scent imprinted jewelry that no longer ticked off territorial instincts.

Yes, John had read Omega mags in his teens. And what could he say, some things just stuck. Things like how to unscent old jewelry you wanted to keep. Or what to do when you suddenly found six feet of bondage rope in your closet. And how to erase stamps and bite marks from skin in under twenty minutes.

Yes, his mind was something of a dump. But John didn’t mind. It meant he could put together the most insane trains of thought, much to the amusement of his classmates. They were always curious to see just what had made him laugh this time and how he’d connected a comment their teacher said to something that would actually be funny.

Sighing John picked up an old copy of O!Mag from the bookshelf and curled up in his armchair. Maybe he didn’t need to start packing just yet. He still had two weeks after all.


	13. Sherlock 1993

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lo' and behold, an update!  
> I'm so sorry it took me forever to get to this, but I promise more updates, maybe even today, as I am in for a month of unemployment and there is, for once, no university stuff to deal with :D  
> I have every intention to finish editing and posting this story some time this month.  
> Again, I'm very sorry for the long wait and thank you for sticking with me.

**Summer 1993**

Finally Sherlock was allowed to go away for school. He couldn't wait for summer to pass. His parents had already told him they'd found a special school just for him. Sherlock knew that what they meant was 'we've found a school willing to take you so behave'. But he didn't mind. He couldn't wait to get away from home, away from the boring cottage and boring elementary school and boring class mates. He'd go out and learn stuff and become famous for something that wasn't telling everyone their orientation. Of course at 12 he also had loads of other things he could tell them, but everybody was most hung up about the orientation thing. For Sherlock it was the most boring. He still hadn't gotten his Omega, though he knew he'd been due three years ago. He'd felt it. But all hoping and begging hadn't made it happen. He'd been stuck home and his Omega hadn't found him. But Sherlock would find him. Just as soon as he got away to school and nanny didn't watch his every move.

The only annoying thing was, that his school wasn’t in London. Like a dirty secret he got hidden away in the countryside, at the coast, with loads of nothing in every direction. But no matter how hard he’d worked on annoying the headmistress that was showing them around, Sherlock had been unable to get a rise out of the woman. And the train station was too far away that he could walk there. It was infuriating and the woman kept talking about how the school had a long history of _treating_ prepubescent diagnosed children. They apparently had counselling mixed into the schedule and Sherlock hated that Mycroft’s school wouldn’t accept him. Not that he wanted to pick up the mantle at Westminster School. Mycroft had just graduated after all. But still, it would have been in London, with a decent rhetorics class and upperclassmen who weren’t all stupid. But no. His body had decided to show off early, so he was stuck in Cornwall and would likely not get to London until he could run away there. 

Sherlock had every intention to run away as soon as he could pull it off. Maybe when he was 14 and they got permission to visit the local village on weekends. He would be able to sneak onto a train and be well on his way to London before anyone noticed his absence. And once in London he could track down his wayward Omega and finally stop being alone. Being alone was horrible. Sherlock hated it. It was only acceptable as long as Mycroft was around because, no matter how much they argued, Mycroft would never turn him away. His older brother would take the time to tell him he was being stupid, and he’d explain in no uncertain terms why his logic was faulty. And it would make Sherlock angry and shout at Mycroft, who was an Omega and shouldn’t be smarter than him. And Mycroft would give him that look that said ‘I’m seven years older Sherlock. Don’t make me prove it. You know I can still carry you off and lock you in the attic’ and pointedly turn back to his book. And there’d be no way to get him to talk until Sherlock had calmed down. It often took till dinner until they would be on speaking terms again, because Sherlock refused to apologise and Mycroft wouldn’t give in and start talking. But his brother wouldn’t turn him away. He’d allow Sherlock to fuss and hover and wreak havoc on their playroom. He’d sometimes even allow Sherlock to curl up with him, though it had become exceedingly rare as they both got older. Now it would only happen when one of them was sick. And they absolutely didn’t talk about it afterwards. But Sherlock knew they didn’t need to talk to communicate. Unlike most people, their unfortunate parents included, they could communicate with their body language and long glances. It made lying quite difficult and more than one argument started just from the way Mycroft looked at him. But that was okay because at least Mycroft understood him.

Their parents of course didn’t get them, but Sherlock didn’t care. The only thing he cared about, was that Mycroft came home after graduating so he could research the Oxford Academy in peace instead of moving right on. Because Mycroft didn’t rush into things. And he wouldn’t let himself be pushed into things. Not even when Sherlock made the very reasonable argument that as an Omega he should be allowed to push Mycroft a bit. After all he also took care of Mycroft, not that his brother appreciated that. No, his brother gave him condescending looks and turned back to the brochure on the Oxford Academy. Because Mycroft was oh so smart and got to go to Oxford, while Sherlock, who was at least just as smart, got to rot away in rural Cornwall. Life sure wasn’t fair.


	14. Mycroft 1993

**August 1993**

Watching Sherlock tear through yet another poor visitor had always worried Mycroft. And since he’d started going away to school it had only gotten worse. The scoldings, mostly centered around dynamic failings of their guests, had taken on a vicious edge that made Mycroft inwardly cringe. They also proved that, no matter what his parents kept telling him, Mycroft was good for Sherlock. After all their parents were, after more than ten years, still unsure of how to deal with their son and because of that they latched onto whatever advise they could get. Even if that advice usually came in the form of ‘lock him away’, ‘put him on meds’, or ‘you should really make him visit a psychiatrist because he isn’t normal’. Well, Mycroft wasn’t normal either, he just hid it better. As long as it didn’t pertain dynamics Mycroft saw things before even Sherlock saw them. He could connect dots that, for other people, were miles apart to draw the most horrifying pictures. He could draw terrifying conclusions and phrase them in such a way that they appeared like a pleasant walk in the park. This skill was one of the reasons that had brought him his first job. It had come from Adrien, a former member of his rhetorics class, who was already working as an attorney in London. Adrian had enough connections to his alma mater to get Mycroft a part time job in Oxford.

Mycroft knew that he didn’t need the job. He’d received a full scholarship from the Oxford Academy, one he could easily carry on to university. But networking was important and one couldn’t start early enough. It was likely that the people he met now would work with him and over him for his whole life. So as long as he convinced them now that he was a competent and dependable Alpha to be, they wouldn’t look too closely at his future applications. Because, unfortunately for him, Mycroft knew that Sherlock was right about him. He didn’t admit it to Sherlock as it grated on him. But no matter how angry he was at his own body, Mycroft was no fool. He knew he’d be diagnosed soon, maybe even in the next year. He’d be delighted if he made it through Academy without any of the usual indicators appearing, but he wouldn’t bet on it. Already he found himself accepting Sherlock’s coddling where usually it would have him seething. So Mycroft planned and got ready to firmly install himself as a smart and hard worker. He also signed up for university level classes so he’d be able to meet his future professors before the year started, all to prove that he would be able to keep up with their classes even though he hadn’t gone through the Academy year yet.

The only problem with this plan was, that it took up too much of his time. Mycroft knew that he should spend more time with Sherlock. And he should spend time with his parents to explain why sending Sherlock to Cornwall was a stupid move. Not that they’d listen to him. No matter how much they struggled with Sherlock’s diagnosis, they trusted him when it came to other’s secondary gender. And Siger was much too old fashioned to take advice from Omega. It made Mycroft want to punch him, but of course he refrained. Not because it wouldn’t feel satisfying, but more because he’d likely break his hand before he broke his father’s nose. He still detested PE and no matter that he made sure to keep himself in shape by abstaining from sweets, he still was no match for an Alpha physically. It more than grated on him, but he wouldn’t be able to endanger Siger’s position as head of the family and Sherlock couldn’t do it yet. At least not in a way that would be accepted by the rest of their family.

So Mycroft stuck to what he did best, give silent support from the sidelines. It hurt to see the anger and mutinous rage in his brother’s eyes. Sherlock was still very much a pirate at heart, so Mycroft knew he’d have walked the plank thrice already this very day. But he couldn’t interfere. All he could do, and would do, was arm Sherlock with everything he could. He’d teach him about quick wits and smart behaviour. He already had a collection of books that he’d send his brother first chance he asked for advice. Not while they were at home of course. Siger would confiscate them because they were college level books. But Mycroft knew that Sherlock would be fit for university grade texts if he just had the privacy to read them. He also knew that, sadly, Sherlock would never follow his lead. There was no way that Sherlock would be able to enter delicate negotiations. He couldn’t sit still long enough for a proper conversation to be carried out. His brother knew all about social finesse and navigating the mine field of inter personal exchange. He just chose to ignore them and enjoyed sitting back to watching the explosion. Yes, his brother would make a fine Chemist one day. Practical work, complicated synthesis and explosions. What else was needed to make Sherlock happy? Maybe a splash of mystery, but that as well could be provided by Chemistry.

And while his brother sulked and planned for the new school year Mycroft watched and packed his own belongings and prepared for the Academy. He’d been almost sad to leave the Westminster School and he was already sure he wouldn’t be quite as content in Oxford as he’d been in London. The bursts of contentment hadn’t been quite as frequent this last year. But still sitting in front of his window and watching the joggers outside had always given him comfort. The sight of them, summer and winter wrapped in running gear, moving along the street outside, laughing or gasping, alone or in groups. They’d always filled him with peace and that peace was sorely missing whenever he left the city. He wasn’t sure why that was the case and he hadn’t felt it was an issue he needed to talk about, not until he was back home and almost sank into depression because the bursts of comfort were missing. Maybe bond education at Oxford would have answers to his questions. And if it had really been his bond calling, then he’d just have to wait until studies were over.

Mycroft was already sure that he’d return to London. Not as an attorney, of course not. No matter how fascinated he was with Adrien. But the civil services always needed people to do desk work. And where others would despair at the thought of gathering information, writing tedious reviews one after another, Mycroft knew he could excel in it. All that was then left would be to get the attention of someone sufficiently important and he’d be set. Not in the foreground but in the background, compiling the dossiers that would lead the country in the right track.

He knew he could do it, even if it was an ambitious goal. The only thing that stood between him and his self proclaimed destiny was biology, and Mycroft wouldn’t allow something pesky like that to interfere with what he wanted. Maybe later, when he was set in position, he could let his orientation be known and how people reacted to it would tell him everything he needed to know. After all those who’d scoff and say it was obvious that an Omega couldn’t rise past his position were foolish and lacked observation skill. And those who understood his position for what it was would be worthy supporters. They could see past the obvious and think about what they saw. Mycroft valued that in his acquaintances.


	15. Sherlock 1994

**Summer 1994**

The first year at the new school had proved to be even more horrid than he’d anticipated. Classes were dull, his classmates were dull, and counselling was a waste of time. Still Sherlock had to visit with the school psychiatrist once a week and explain to the stupid woman in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t take those little pills she wanted to give him. He had no anger management issues. He wasn’t delusional. And he definitely wasn’t pretending to be an Alpha. Really, his scent alone should have convinced the woman. But she’d just nod and hmm and make notes before asking him again if he wouldn’t take those little white pills. Just one and just once per day. But Sherlock knew he wasn’t sick. He was just ahead of what she perceived to be normal.

Sherlock didn’t tell his parents any of this though. It was Mycroft who, as usual, got his succinct letters regarding the school. And it was Mycroft who send back the books on psychiatry and acting. After that it had taken Sherlock just two weeks to convince the woman that he didn’t need her care. Of course he was also able to fake more than a few distressing conditions successfully, but no one needed to know that yet. It became almost something like a game between Mycroft and him, where he’d pretend to be someone else in each letter and Mycroft would tell him who he was. And also, where he’d gone wrong. It was exhilarating as well as frustrating and it was the one bright spot in Sherlock’s mail. Not that he got many letters. Mostly there were monthly updates from his parents as well as the messages from Mycroft whenever his brother felt like writing them. And once in a blue moon there were cards from other family members.

One of the most depressing dates of this first year had been his birthday. His parents had refused to let him stay home until the day was over, so he’d been back in school, where classmates looked at him funny for grinning gleefully over a collection of thick tomes send by Mycroft and a pair of safety glasses from his parents. He even got a miniature lab coat from aunt Helena, who was slowly getting into his good grace now that he was older and more independent.

His classmates mostly came from surrounding villages, but there was also a group of those like him. Prepubescent diagnosis was not uncommon enough that there weren’t a few hands full of children in every year. And those children were distributed on the few schools that allowed diagnosed students under the age of 16. They were all still unbonded, so at least there was no arguing or envy about that. But where everyone told Sherlock he should try get along with them, he was just as annoyed by them. Maybe they annoyed him even more with their dull worries and their idiotic dreams. And they hated him for not thinking them special. For him, and he seemed alone with that knowledge, there was no difference between diagnosed and undiagnosed. There was only Alpha and Omega and maybe male and female, if you wanted to be picky. He treated everyone the way they should be treated, and the others thought he was taking away from their ‘special’ by being courteous to everyone. Sherlock only scoffed at that and didn’t fight it when his room mate wanted to move out. More room for him and his experiments. He’d started Chemistry at home already and even though this school only offered it after 8th grade, Sherlock had no intention to wait. He knew how to have fun without setting his bed on fire.

 

So all things considered Sherlock was grateful to be allowed to get back home for summer. It definitely helped that Mycroft came for visit for a few weeks. He was due to start studying in fall and he’d apparently also landed himself a job already. Nothing big. A bit of a support position for a local politician. But it still meant that he’d be busy from now on. So Sherlock relished the chance to be with Mycroft, who’d sullenly shown him his new ID after he came home. He now had a little O stamped next to the M and his date of diagnosis was July 16th. Sherlock cheekily congratulated him on being diagnosed as his ‘end of Academy year’ examination. In retaliation Mycroft had hidden his school books and made Sherlock solve really obvious riddles until dinner time. The only thing that was even remotely interesting was the story of a boy dead in a swimming pool. Sherlock had seen the story in the paper but mom hadn’t yet allowed him to go visit the pool so he could tell them what they’d missed.

Mycroft as well had made him promise not to go there, but Sherlock had no intention to keep that promise. It was so very obvious what they’d forgotten and Sherlock didn’t want to see the riddle unsolved. He had to agree with Mycroft, he also wanted to show off. But that was only natural. He’d after all just spend a year surrounded by idiots who thought he was making stuff up half the time and accused him of being vicious the other half. Just because he’d pointed out that Misha shouldn’t cheat on Ellie with Rebecca. Just because she was going to be Rebecca’s Alpha didn’t mean she could just go behind Ellie’s back.

The incident had been one of those moments that got him weekly extra counselling. More time to run circles around the annoying woman and her annoying children books and the stupid questions regarding his ‘wild imagination’ and ‘disregard of personal space’. He was apparently also ‘being an insensitive jerk’. But Madame Julie had no little pills for that, so she thought he’d benefit of weekly meetings with not only her but also their ethics teacher. Luckily the man understood that Sherlock knew all about ethics. He had learnt it from Mycroft and what Mycroft taught Sherlock didn’t forget. The teacher also understood that Sherlock didn’t understand the value of discretion, so their ‘detentions’ were more like classes where Sherlock got to ask whatever he wanted to know and the old teacher did his best to answer.

At least there was one good thing about school in the middle of nowhere. Not that it changed Sherlock’s plans to leave, but at least one bit wasn’t as horrible as it could be.


	16. Mycroft 1994

**July 1994**

Once he’d come to the Academy Mycroft had been reminded again why he rarely socialised within his own age group. And the Academy was made up solely of said age group. It was after all a one year institution aimed to guide their students through the troubling diagnosis period and give them everything they needed to function in their new roles.

On his application he’d lied without batting an eye and had ticked ‘Alpha’ on the question ‘What gender do you think you’ll be diagnosed at’. It had of course impacted his schedule appropriately and he’d only been asked to take the minimal requirement of Omega aimed classes. Years ago his teachers had already assumed he’d be an Alpha and he was still sure of it. Him being diagnosed as an Omega was unlikely. But Academies were required by law to offer both classes to every undiagnosed student. Of course you were free to drop all the ‘wrong’ classes after diagnosis, but until then you were required to take Alpha and Omega subjects in case your biology surprised you after all.

Mycroft found the whole concept of ‘Omega subjects’ offencive and annoying, but he kept that opinion to himself. It would just bring undue attention to him and his cover. It had grated on him that he’d even need a cover just to pursue his dream. But old prejudices ran deep and an Omega working somewhere that wasn’t his Alpha’s business was not as normal as it should be. He kept that opinion heavily guarded and only let it come forth in debate class, where he’d been soon known for his fierce defence of equality and many of the Omega students flocked to him, hoping he’d bond with them. After all an Alpha who would argue for job equality and letting Omega do as they pleased instead of as their Alpha wished was something to be dreamed off. Mycroft dreamt of that as well. Of being diagnosed and finding and Alpha who would accept him and his plans and who wouldn’t mind that they couldn’t go out together until Mycroft was firmly installed in his position.

He’d gone undiagnosed for the entire year and had just shrugged and said it would come in due time when his self proclaimed friends asked if he wasn’t worried. Secretly he’d been grateful that he wouldn’t have to explain to them that he was actually an Omega. He hadn’t minded that he’d had to go to prom as a Beta. And he had just smiled self-depreciatively when people had commented on what a loss it was that he wasn’t diagnosed. He’d make a fine Alpha.

Then of course had come end of the year examinations and Mycroft’s well build disguise had gone up in flames. He could just be grateful that his friends had already gone though theirs and most of his fellow students were off with their bondmates. It was just the few undiagnosed left that needed to go through a final examination. Like a last attempt to diagnose them before they were let free. A final shot at telling them what they obviously couldn’t notice for themselves.

Mycroft had felt off all day already but had put it down to nerves. Just one more day. This was Saturday and then on Sunday he could go home and live his life without a letter beside the M in his ID. He was the last student to be examined, he’d made sure of that, and now he just needed to make it one more day.

The doctor had gone through the normal examinations and Mycroft had felt his skin itching more and more at every touch of the man’s gloved hands. But he’d have been able to ignore that. He was good at remaining impassive, at showing no reaction. He’d have stood and suffered in silence. But the dreaded hormonal test had given him away. The urine sample had turned a rather striking saphire blue and the doctor had dared to condole him. Mycroft had glared daggers at him, which had made the Beta all the more apologetic as he filed the paperwork that would make his diagnosis official. But Mycroft wasn’t mad at the diagnosis. He didn’t care that he was now officially an Omega. He’d thought of himself as an Omega, however grudgingly, for 10 years already. Sherlock had made sure of that. What offended him was, that the doctor seemed to think being an Omega was something that needed to be mourned over.

He was honest with himself. He’d been an utter prick to the man afterwards, but then he’d likely never see him again. He’d started to whine and moan at the smallest thing. As if the diagnosis had made him suddenly more sensitive. After all Sherlock wasn’t the only convincing actor in the family. It had made the doctor even more apologetic and Mycroft had not felt the least remorse when he’d finally escaped the man’s clutches. He’d packed his bag, glared at his remaining room mate, and made sure to be gone by Saturday night.

Sherlock had laughed in his face when he’d told his parents of his woes and he wasn’t quite sure he’d forgiven him yet. Though it had been nice to see him laugh again. His letters had after all been filled with annoyance and discomfort and it was good to see his spirit hadn’t suffered from the oppressive school. Mycroft just hoped his brother would keep in high spirit until he came back from Academy and could dethrone their father for good. He also, rather unfairly, hoped that his brother’s antics would keep occupying his parents’ attention for the summer so they wouldn’t try to interfere with his plans. Mycroft had no intention to give up on Oxford just because he’d need to find a dorm that would accept an unbonded Omega.


	17. Greg 1994

**July 1994**

Working for the police was equal parts boredom and excitement. There were difficult days, and dull days, and days where there was so much to do Greg didn't even have time for a piss. It was great and if it weren't for his girlfriend Greg wouldn't even stick out among his coworkers, at least not as much.

But no, he had to go and fall for a pretty Beta lady who thought it was the most natural thing to not fit in. Sure she was brilliant and Greg loved her, but his life would've been easier if she weren't quite so Buddhist. She had no love for scented perfumes or body washes and made sure that Greg stuck to more neutral products instead of a helpful Alpha fragrance. Coupled with his more slight Beta build made Greg stick out like a sore thumb. No matter if he was at work, or at a police function, or out in a club. And whenever Liliane came along she made sure to praise him and advertise his Beta status to every person she interacted with. That wasn’t much of a problem when they were with friends. It was even pleasant to hear her contentment with his accomplishments. But at work it did more harm than good because in an environment where 90% of his coworkers where Alphas he already had enough trouble proving his competence.

Still, Greg loved her, and he loved his job, and if that meant the two could never ever meet, then so be it. He'd love her, marry her, be happy with her. And he'd go to his police functions alone, and keep jogging so he could keep up with everyone else.  
His runs of late hadn't been quite as relaxing any more, but still the sight of the Westminster School brought a smile to his face. Maybe it wasn't quite as broad and didn't make him feel quite as happy, but was still the highlight of his day. He knew it should be Liliane who made him that happy, not a block of stone and glass. After all they were going to marry next year. And Greg would do his best to be happy with her, as happy as one could be without their mate. Greg was sure that Westminster School had been his mate’s home at least for some time, but he had no way to be sure. His fiance had no such worries. Liliane didn't care about her lack of diagnosis and the fact that somewhere in the world her other half was just as lonely. Or rather, her other half was lonely, because Liliane wasn't lonely. It was only Greg who longed and missed and cursed his body for denying him. 

Liliane had once told him that she believed her bondmate dead or in some way deficient, unable to form a bond, so she had long ago vowed to embrace her beta nature. But Greg knew better. His mate was somewhere out their. Even without a bond Greg was sure of it. There was no other way to explain his sudden, completely unprovoked mood swings. They had got stronger this last year, but to Greg’s relieve they never turned him mournful - an indicator that his mate might be in mortal danger - only angry.

Like today. Saturday working was always a bother in itself, but on this warm July Saturday, Greg didn't want be in the shoes of the poor criminal that he'd apprehend. For once that wasn't even the fault of his Alpha patrol partners. Sure, they never let a chance go to make a joke at his expense. But today he'd come into the changing room frowning and with a snarl on his face. And no matter that he was 'just' a Beta, it still had them take a step back and leave him his space. It didn't help.

Two hours later, when they apprehended an abusive Alpha, who'd almost killed her Omega, no one had made cracks about him having to compensate something when he almost broke the woman's arm. She also didn't dare complain about excess violence when Greg pretty much shoved her into the hands of one of the other officers before he went to the ambulance and the frightened Omega.

It wasn't a role he enjoyed - interviewing the still frightened victim. But it was a role he'd been pushed into because he was a Beta. His scent said non-threatening and since many crimes were committed by Alphas, he way the only one out of the whole unit, who didn't smell like assailant. No, he smelled like child and every frightened Omega felt the instinctual need to comfort him. Just great.

For once sitting with the man helped. He could focus on him and ask delicate questions and help him when he needed to move from the gurney onto the hospital bed. It was almost but not quite how it should be. Greg just hoped this moment would never be exactly right. Because if this would be how he met his own Omega - he refused to believe he'd be the Omega in question - as the victim of a heinous crime like this, his guilt would just rip him apart. After all he'd left the Academy years ago. And it was still socially accepted to take a years downtime of a job in order to find your bondmate. So seeing his own failure laid out like this would be horrifying. Greg had to believe his Omega was stronger than that. His Omega would not fall victim to some pretty crime. And that was a shitty thought. Greg knew you weren't weak if you became the victim of a crime. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time or had caught the attention of the wrong person. There was nothing weak in being a victim. And there was no strength in being a criminal. But that didn’t mean he wanted to see his mate like this.

But Greg also didn't want to go search. Or rather, he didn't even know where to start. Just last year he'd have said Westminster School. But last year he'd also been happy with Liliane. Not that he wasn't happy with her now. It was just that last year they'd been fresh in love and she'd been the centre of his world. Now they were living together for a year and set to be wed next summer. Not that he wanted to end the engagement. He still loved her. He'd marry her and care for her.

It wasn't the norm for people to marry, since most considered the bond to be enough. Marriage was more the public declaration that yes, you agreed with nature's choice of mate. But for Betas it was the only way to legally gain something similar. It was also a requirement if a Beta pair wanted to adopt, since their biology made it impossible to have children of their own.

And Greg wanted children. And if he didn't meet his Omega in time to have them, he'd very well use the chance to adopt some. He just needed to remind himself that he was marrying Liliane not for the chance to have children but because she made him happy. Sure, the new shine had worn off, but she was still the same wonderful woman he’d fallen for last summer. And they would build a life together, no matter how difficult the world wanted to make it for them.


	18. Sherlock 2000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fast forward 6 years

**June 2000**

Sherlock had been 15 when he'd smoked his first joint and it had been rather unimpressive. It tasted marginally better than smoking, though nicotine gave the better kick.

But it was something the upperclassmen did in their free time and they were the ones with access to the lab. So Sherlock hung out with them and smoked weed and came to the realisation that even though tobacco gave the better kick, weed gave him something else. The drug left him pleasantly lethargic, a thick fog settling over his mind. It was enough to dumb him down to what was approximately the socially acceptable level of genius. He even found himself better interested in the boring subjects because his mind didn't whirl ahead quite as much. It wasn't enough to truly impend his abilities of deduction though. Because of this it took Mycroft more than a year to figure it out.   
Sherlock quite prided himself on the fact that he'd eluded his brother for so long and celebrated the strongly worded letter on his unbecoming habit with a trip to a club.

The ecstasy he tried there would forever remain a one time incident, as would the LSD trip in celebration of his 18th birthday. They'd both left him too disoriented for comfort and it irked him that his first fuck had been in a club restroom where he'd had a pretty bored province Omega suck him off.  
Sherlock had never had trouble getting into clubs, his scent alone adding a good five years. That mixed with the height primary puberty had gifted him with was enough to bring him past every bouncer. The very expensive clothes didn't hinder him either. People seemed contend to believe him just because he smelled competent. They were foolish, but Sherlock didn't care as long as it helped him reach his goal. It was always amusing to watch his 'friends' rely on perfume and body wash and still struggling to get in while Sherlock just gave the Alpha at the door a hard look and got inside.

Because yes, Sherlock had claimed the club as his territory and none of the local Alphas were strong enough or around often enough to dispute his claim. The same went for most of the school dormitory and the science tract. It was quite freeing. It left him with a lot of responsibilities as well, but those were a small price to pay for free access.

Sometimes Sherlock wondered what would happen if the club patrons found out they had a sixteen year old settling their disputes. But then he'd remember the time he broke a guy's arm for trying to sell poisoned ecstasy in his territory. No, his age didn't matter.   
It often amused Sherlock how his banishment had worked out and he wondered what his father would have to say to his son's recreational habits. Siger had always been a firm believer in chastity before bonding and the Omega goes above everything.

But Sherlock had waited 18 years already. Time and time again he’d wished and even prayed for his Omega to come to him - or for him to stumble over him. But no. His Omega eluded him and Sherlock's body was sick of waiting, as was his mind. And if his Omega wasn't there to be taken care of and to satisfy him, then Sherlock would look somewhere else. He didn't go so far as to outright replace his Omega. No, that place at his feet was always open for the day he found his mate. But flings and one night stands were an altogether different matter.

And it wasn’t like his father could complain about it. Siger had died a year ago and now it was on aunt Helena to keep the family together. Though that was mostly due to the fact that Sherlock didn’t want the job. She was only diagnosed eight years longer than him, which was nothing in the great scheme of things. And Sherlock knew that he was the more strong-willed of the two of them. If push came to shove he would be head of the Holmes family. But Sherlock wasn’t interested in that. It was of course fortunate that Siger wasn’t able to make his life miserable, but if that meant Sherlock had to lead the family, then he’d rather have the old man back. He was busy enough leading his own life and making sure no one tried to kill someone on his territory.

Of course in a few months he’d have to find himself a new club, a new piece of territory to claim. If it weren’t give him access to university grade equipment and a chance to stick his nose up at Mycroft, Sherlock would have happily burned the letter of approval that came from Oxford Academy. For Sherlock, Oxford Academy was no better than any other Academy, but the acceptance to the Oxford Academy was like an engraved invitation to Oxford University. And their Chemistry Department sounded like candy land. Add in the fact that Oxford was infinitely closer to London and Sherlock was all for relocating. He didn’t even care much what happened to his old territory, which was a very un-Alpha-like move of him, but really, the place was boring beyond believe. The worst that had happened in the seven years he’d been around was an attempt at badly mixed drugs and a child that had drowned in a nearby river because his parents hadn’t paid attention. All boring and obvious and Sherlock mostly thought good riddance when he imagined his stay at Oxford. Or really any place that wasn’t here. There were enough bored Alpha around to pick up his mantle after all.

Just another month and he’d be done with this boring hole in the wall place. Maybe he’d take a trip once classes let out. Sneak one of Mycroft’s credit cards and make his way to the continent. He’d dabbled with enough language classes over the years that he could likely pass for something like a native in most countries of western Europe. And with his violin he was sure he could also get by. It would allow him to leave the card behind or at least use it rarely enough that Mycroft couldn’t track him. Because he had no illusions that Mycroft would do his best to track him down and bring him home. No matter that as an Omega he had no business in interfering in Sherlock’s plans.

Sherlock knew that over the last six years his brother hadn’t only breezed through his BAs in political science and business administrations. Mycroft had also established himself as the source for information on anything from agriculture to zoology. It was amusing really to read Mycroft’s accounts of business. Sherlock could imagine it well, how Mycroft sat behind his small desk and worked, ever the prim and proper little cog in the wheel while subtly charming the pants off everyone around. Of course not the real pants. No, proper Mycroft knew not only what was age appropriate but also what was socially acceptable. And having some fun wasn’t. Not when you were an unbonded Omega in a room full of Alphas who all did their best not to actively sniff you. When he was on a particularly good joint, the mood relaxed and his scorn placated, he could laugh about it. How Mycroft used every weapon but the most obvious to make them fall into his trap. No that Mycroft would ever admit to it. No, his brother would rather erase his biology completely than have his position compromise. It made Sherlock angry and all the more ready to ditch the required family meeting once school let out.

Mycroft should be glad for what he had, Sherlock thought. His brother’s body was working like clockwork, ever dependable and utterly predictable. Hell, from what he’d learnt so far even Mycroft’s heat came in a mind numbingly boring pattern. And only twice a year. It made Sherlock growl and rage at the idea of how Mycroft was wasting himself. Hell, Sherlock would have been glad to be in Mycroft’s position. Or at least to have Mycroft’s hormonal cycle. He definitely didn’t want his brother’s job. But it would have been nice to go through boring and normal routine. Especially since it would have postponed, if not negated, his banishment. Even with Mycroft’s biology Sherlock would have been a difficult child, sure. He couldn’t see that change. But he’d have gone through primary puberty in boarding school and secondary puberty in Academy and then he could have gone home and taken his position of head of family. Or well, he could have avoided that and instead sniffed out his Omega.  
But no, he got the body that didn’t even know what undiagnosed meant. It was still, after nineteen years surrounded by Betas as he grew up, an abstract concept. A seemingly arbitrary designation. A label that was removed some time between birth and death. Of course Sherlock had by now learnt to determine what a person identified as. He could read the signs of a Beta trying to pass for an Alpha and the subtle difference in footwear that told a female Omega from a female Alpha. Sherlock could spot a myriad of other differences and peculiarities, but that was what it came down to, what the world seemed to revolve around. Orientation. Diagnosis.

Sherlock couldn’t wait to enter the world of adults, where you could assume that anyone was diagnosed, aware of their secondary gender, and were Betas did their best to not be noticed as such. Hell, they were glad when Sherlock ignored their failed disguise and used proper etiquette. Of course it grated on those Omegas who hoped to pass for an Alpha before they were diagnosed, like Mycroft had been. Or that one memorable female who’d been so obsessed with the idea of being an Omega that her emerging Alpha side had thrown her completely off track.  
Yes, Sherlock couldn’t wait to leave behind ‘child hood’ and the all Beta society that came with schools. Most teachers were of course Omega and Sherlock was sick of that as well. He didn’t want to care for others any more. He wanted to have his own Omega and no one else to bother with. That was his goal for Oxford. Be independent. Don’t concern yourself with other peoples trouble. As Mycroft was prone to preaching: Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.  
Well, Sherlock would for once heed his brother’s advice. He’d live by it until he found his Omega and then he could care for him and no one else. It wasn’t as if people appreciated being taken care of anyways.


	19. John 2001

**April 2001**

He’d done it. Finally. John grinned at the letter he’d fished out of the mail pile today. The whole affair was so unspectacular he’d thought it was a bill first. But it wasn’t. It was the result of a professional review and now, at almost 30 years of age, John was done learning.

After his rather unfortunate choice in Academy John had miraculously managed to receive a spot at St. Bart's. John still wasn’t sure if he should thank Mike for putting in a good word on his behalf of not. No matter, he’d got the place and had even managed to land himself a part time job at the University that helped pay the bills after Mike moved in with his Alpha. John had worked hard and managed to ace enough of his exams that the recruitment officer had no choice but to allow him a probationary placement at the military hospital he’d applied at for practical training.

The Alpha hadn’t even been able to say anything against the year John had lost after his parents’ death. The man had just nodded at his explanation and had continued on to the next in a list of endless questions.

After the conversation he’d had to go through physical testing and no matter how much the doctor muttered and prodded, he couldn’t label him unfit. John had known that. He’d trained hard after all. But it had still been a relieve when the paperwork had come back with an A. Exceptionally fit.

If it hadn’t been for the little o in in ID there’d have been no discussion about his place in the Army. But since John had his little o he’d got a probationary placement. He’d been fairly sure it had been more because Omega were good for troop morale than because they’d thought he was qualified. But John had shown them. He hadn’t breezed through basics. Of course not. Even Beta soldiers struggled at times with the requirements and he was, no matter how smart he was, stuck with an Omega’s built. A little softer in the middle, a little weaker in the arms, a lot stronger in the emotional department. Not that being emotional made you a good solider. But it meant he’d quickly figured out not only how to play his comrades but also how to interact with them in a way that almost made them forget the sickly sweet tang of Omega John couldn’t erase.

Or rather, that he didn’t want to erase. There were shots and cremes and other forms of medication that would scrub his scent clean. But he only used them when he went into heat, which had evened out at a nice thrice a year rate after the initial upsurge at the Academy. It was still embarrassing to have to announce to his unit that he’d be more or less useless for the next week, holed up in isolation until his urges had gone down. But by now he could suffer the offers of company with humour. A lot of that had to do with the fact that the Alphas as well knew that it was just good natured teasing. Like offering to hold a comrade’s dick after he broke his arm.

After all John hadn’t hesitate to incapacitate the Alpha who’d tried to force his way into the isolation room on his first heat on the force. The poor woman still wouldn’t look him in the eyes and the whole situation had driven the point home that just because he was an Omega he wasn’t weak. Sure, he had to train harder, work more and prove himself frequently just to reach the place they all just got handed. But he wasn’t weak in the sense that he couldn’t defend himself. He could play coy of course. He excelled at giving their shooting range instructor nervous half insecure looks that made the man send everyone home early and give John a bit of private tutoring. And if he had to suffer their comments of ‘using every weapon available’ and if ‘the Sargent let him check out his personal piece’, at least it got him solitary range time and a private instructor others would pay good money for.

By the time he’d been done with basic training John had been the best shot out of his whole unit. After all you didn’t exactly need an Alpha’s physiology to fire a gun. Not even those with heavy recoil. Sure, they had been built by Alphas for Alphas, but Betas had been part of the armed forces for enough years that adjustments had been made. The look on the tester’s face when John had refused the ‘Omega service piece’ and taken his range tests with what he considered a ‘real gun’ would always stay in fond memory.

Of course he hadn’t only had drill and PT and gun shooting. He’d had tactics and military etiquette and he had driven more than one instructor around the bend with his questions of ‘well I’m an Omega. Would it be considered within etiquette to do XY’. They’d been simultaneously flustered and annoyed and John had almost felt something like pity for them. After all Omega in the military were still rare and mostly received spots in support positions. They could be drivers and nurses and cooks. But not doctors. Not officers. John kind of resented the idea that Omega were too soft, too sweet to take a position of leadership. Just because most Omega were sexually submissive and deferred to their Alpha in social situations didn’t make them weak. After all he’d seen Omega raise rag-tag bands of five or more Alpha children without batting an eyelash, all the while helping out that poor girl next door who was expecting her first baby next week. Omega weren’t weak. It was just that their strength, their leadership, had a different flavour from Alpha leadership.

John had learnt early on in medical training to use that as an advantage when dealing with Alpha patients. They’d had a whole class, separated by secondary gender, dedicated to doctor patient interaction and how to best use their natural pheromone level to calm and guide their patients. But since military hospitals were mostly stuffed with Alpha doctors, the patients often couldn’t believe that the soft spoken pretty smelling unattached Omega in front of them was actually going to prescribe their meds and assess the severity of their gunshot wound. One Alpha had even asked him to please leave before she took off her bandages because it wasn’t pretty, surely the doctor would be in soon.  
John had laughed in her face and told her he’d seen more gruesome things in med school. He’d also lectured her on underestimating him while changing the bandage and cleaning out a bit of an infection. After that she’d stared at him with wide eyes and a bit of hero worship.

Yes, John was proud to say that he’d left quite a few of his patients and supervisors floored. He was also one of the most liked doctors at the hospital and even when he was still a trainee, some of the wounded had explicitly asked for his care. Most of them had come from the nearby training grounds and John had made sure to lecture them extra hard on being careless in training situations. After all how did they propose they defend themselves and others in the field when they couldn’t even defend themselves from a wet shower floor?  
It was well received and John got more offers than he’d liked on any given day.

Most annoying had been the beginning of the year, when the Alphas came in straight from the Academy, staring at him like he was their last meal. After all he was still unattached, so maybe he was theirs. But it rarely took him more than once to teach them not to touch him without invitation. And if someone didn’t learn the lesson by the second time John floored him or her in the middle of the corridor, he had his unit mates at his back to glare at them. Not that John particularly liked leaving stuff like that to friends, but sometimes an Alpha would just push and push unless he received a heart to heart, or more a fist to face, from another Alpha. John made sure to treat them most coldly when they ended up in his care afterwards.

And now, with the final examinations complete and the paperwork signed, he was no longer that trainee doctor Omega who got to play with the big bad Alphas in the training ground.  
He was Captain John H. Watson and he was going to ship out soon. He was pleased by this, pleased by what he’d gained over the years. He hadn’t let his body drag him down. He hadn’t allowed his biology to keep him from his dreams. 20 years of living as an Omega and even though being unbonded grated on him, he had achieved one of his goals.

His second goal was, of course, to find his Alpha. Everyone hoped for their mate after all. And John did his best to ban his instructor’s voice from the ‘bond biology’ classes. The old hag’s voice had been in his head ever since she’d held that fateful class on premature diagnosis.

‘Common triggers for premature diagnosis can be the death or birth of the patient’s bondmate. Another possible catalyst can be the mate or a sibling going through secondary puberty or a high stress situation. High stress situations can range from a car accident to outright abuse. As a doctor you have to be able to see the signs and find…’

John had droned out what had come afterwards. He’d been pretty much hung up on the ‘death of the patient’s bondmate’ part. He’d been ten at the time it started, so it was unlikely it had been his mate’s birth. It wasn’t impossible of course, but ten years was more the upper end of the range of age differences. And if his mate was already going through secondary puberty at that time, it would mean they were a good eight or nine years older, which was just as unlikely.

Still, John held onto hope and prayed that his Alpha was safe somewhere. That he’d find him in time, even when John left him to protect his country in another conflict. He’d come home every time, he’d promised his dad long ago, back when he’d been 16 and still talking about becoming an army doctor. He’d come home and one day his Alpha would be waiting for him and he’d finally get what was his due. A loving and caring partner who supported him in his endeavours and didn’t try to police his work. Someone who’d accept that John didn’t like cooking and refused to have more than two children.

Someone he could grow old with.


	20. Sherlock 2006

**Summer 2006**

At 25 years of age Sherlock was finally sick and tired of university, so he didn’t bother to re-register for the winter term. It wasn’t like he’d been in university much over the last three years, but the student ID had been helpful in all kinds of situation. But finally he was done with people asking when he was going to graduate and if he was going to get his PhD soon. As it was he wouldn’t even getting a BA, which was annoying in and on itself. It wasn’t even because he lacked the qualifications. If it weren’t for the lab time and attendance records he’d have been able to ace all his exams that first year. But after the first three terms came term four. And term four meant being support staff in a research group. And none of the professors liked Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t like them right back, but unfortunately that meant he had no where to fulfil the requirements.

So instead of doing research work he consulted - first in Oxford and then in London. Of course Mycroft didn’t approve. Mycroft didn’t approve of anything Sherlock did - be it consulting, chemistry or crack. Sherlock couldn’t please his brother and after the two years of study he’d also understood that he couldn’t one up his brother. Mycroft would say ‘behave yourself’ in the same bland voice as ‘the weather is horrid today’ and ‘mummy is disappointed in you, Sherlock’.

And Sherlock was sick and tired of it, of having others dictate what he should and shouldn’t do, of what was and wasn’t socially acceptable. After more than twenty years of dancing to other people’s tune he was just done with it. And for Sherlock done with it meant going to London and living under a bridge because a powder line seemed like a better use of his money than an electricity bill. After all the line would immediately make him feel better. Especially when there was nothing to do. He could get up and walk to the next street corner and spend an hour playing his violin without a thought.  
Which had the added benefit that it would find his next line.

Once he’d completely relocated to London, the Oxford dorm room no more than a distraction, he started consulting in earnest. It wasn’t quite as satisfying as solving the riddles Mycroft had used to send him, but it gave him a means of entertaining his mind when his lab equipment was broken once again by some stupid thug who didn’t get that Sherlock was not interested in paying for his spot to sleep in. Of course said thug would regret it as soon as Sherlock sniffed him out, which took between five minutes and five hours - depending on how busy the man had been.

Every once and again Sherlock took a trip across the channel and travelled around Europe for a bit. It meant of course that Mycroft knew where he went. His brother’s tracking system was uncanny. But Sherlock didn’t care. After all Mycroft knew that if he tried to catch Sherlock, his brother was well able to vanish off the face of earth completely. Sherlock didn’t require much in term of creature comforts and he was perfectly content to return to his bridge. His spot would remain empty for up to three months because no one dared to invade it.

He’d also gotten a group of almost friends, who were just as homeless as him and tended to flock to him whenever he was around. Sherlock knew they stuck around for the protection he offered and the occasional fifty that landed in his violin case, but at least they were honest about it. Sherlock never gave the money away for anything but information, but he had no problem with treating his group to a meal. They were all part of his territory and Sherlock took care of what was his. And if one of the Omega came to him for protection and offered to warm his bed in exchange, Sherlock wasn’t going to say no.

The one thing he always refused, was going steady with someone. As if he could go steady with someone who wasn’t his Omega. That spot was carefully fenced off in his mind palace, a secret chamber that he never even went close to. Around it were the rooms for Mycroft and Mummy and Siger and all the members of his family. Sherlock didn’t mind not visiting that wing of the palace. The rest of it he roamed frequently. Especially after a good hit, when his mind was sharp and the lines of his palace defined past anything technology could create. His mind’s self was faster then, speeding past paintings and doors to whatever he searched for in the clutter of rooms.

And every once in a while people would come to him with questions, would email him discreetly or just walk up to him on the street. Sherlock turned most of them away, but there were always some, like the Omega with the Alpha in prison, who intrigued him. And then he’d focus his mind on that for a while, vanishing into the hunt and the riddle until he came back to his spot under the bridge, hungry and exhausted and everyone thought he had been fighting or been held captive. Sherlock never corrected them. Instead he sat on his dirty sleeping bag and played them a piece while the Omega of the month was curled against his side, giving him a bit of the warmth he was waiting for. It never felt quite right to be with someone else, to let another Omega rub against his side or nuzzle his hand. Sherlock knew what was missing, but his Omega was nowhere to be found so Sherlock didn’t deny himself some small comfort. He’d after all travelled all across the continent but not a trace of his mate lingered in the city of London or any other place he visited. Instead there was emptiness and dull normality that was only elevated by sex, drugs and murder, not necessarily in that order.

But he didn’t get the murders for himself. No, he got the boring ‘where did my Omega run off to’s and the ‘someone stole my necklace’s. If he was lucky he got an ‘I think that new neighbour is a murderer/stalker/burglar’ and could spend a few days sniffing out all the details before sending a tip to the MET.

Once his relocation was complete and he was no longer an Oxford student Sherlock stopped holding himself back.

The first order of business was cleaning himself up. Or at least getting out from under his bridge and into a dingy little flat where no one cared that he was an unbonded Alpha and liked to do chemical experiments in his kitchen. There were also no question asked when the homeless showed up at his door or window. Nobody cared that he had a different unbonded Omega every month. All that mattered to the landlord, was that the rent got paid in time. The neighbours wanted to be left alone and Sherlock wanted the same. It was an easy symbiosis and Sherlock used the extra money from not having to pay tuition to get himself a computer. Not a fancy model, but one that did the job he’d purchased it for.

And with the computer and the address came cases that were more interesting. Clients found him easier and he could build up more of a reputation. This new reputation also lead to the pretty Omega currently sitting on his dingy couch and telling him about the Alpha accused of murder. Sherlock didn’t care if the Alpha was cleared of the charges, but the idea of getting his hands on a real murder investigation was exciting.

It was also the first time Sherlock came into direct contact with the law and as soon as he stepped onto the scene he could feel every person stare at him. They could all see the signs, Sherlock knew. Maybe the well trained ones could even smell the traces of intravenous drug use on him. Sherlock didn’t care. He just gave the Alpha in charge, a DI Lestrade, a long look and then proceeded to blow the man’s mind with his deductions about the case. Of it was obvious that the DI didn’t believe him. No one believed him when they met him for the first time. They didn’t believe and called him a rude little shit and Sherlock made it his business to air their dirty laundry in exchange.

This time though Sherlock was surprised to learn that his deductions weren’t what had the DI floored. It wasn’t even the lingering smell of cocain permeating his body. No, what had the man’s panties in a twist was, that Sherlock treated him like the Alpha he was. When one of the technicians asked him about why he did it, Sherlock just scoffed and said because it was obvious, as was the technician’s habit of cheating on his Omega with every unbonded something he came across.  
His relationship with Anderson never recovered from that blow.

But Sherlock didn’t care about the technician. He was much more interested in the DI, who seemed to be Sherlock’s negative image. Or rather his positive image. If you took everything that made up Sherlock’s personality, that wasn’t gender, and inversed it, you had DI Lestrade. Dependable, stoic, unmatured, secure job, steady wife, two children, predictable habits, no unusual hobbies,… Sherlock could continue the list for a while more. But that wasn’t what fascinated him about the DI. No, what had Sherlock take notice was the man’s smell. Not familiar, not exactly. But still safe and comfortable in a way he associated, however grudgingly, with Mycroft and home. But Sherlock didn’t permit himself to dwell on it. He focused on the case and made sure to never show up high on a crime scene.

It was much too amusing to show up sober and have everyone glare at him because they knew but could do nothing about it. Well, do nothing was a lie. But the DI had recognised his worth, so as long as he didn’t obviously screw up he got texts every once in a blue moon that brought him the most interesting riddles. And that was something Sherlock wasn’t ready to loose yet.


	21. Greg 2006

**Summer 2006**

After almost sixteen years working as a police officer, Greg had pretty much seen it all in one variation or another. Sure, there were still moments that surprised him, outcomes he hadn’t imagined, possibilities he hadn’t entertained. But he prided himself on his quick wits and his ability to put things together. But all the years of experience were utterly inadequate when it came to dealing with Sherlock Holmes.

The first time he met the boy, because at almost fifteen years his younger - and at that time it looked more like twenty - Greg was convinced he was a cousin of the Omega he was about to question. It wasn’t uncommon for families to send an Alpha relative to take care of an Omega. Especially when the Alpha was dead or arrested. Greg often wondered what the Omega in question thought of it.Because no matter what they were raised to believe, an Omega could leave if they wanted to. They couldn’t claim a territory of their own, which Greg thought was ridiculous, but there were enough Omega houses and platonic flat shares where an Alpha did little more than sign the papers. But Greg was in no position to worry about them. All he did make sure of, was that the mourning Omega received a discreet leaflet and telephone number for the Omega help line. After all with the abusive Alpha in prison there was no way to anticipate how the family would treat the Omega.

But that wasn’t why Sherlock Holmes was around. He didn’t know the Omega, had in fact never met him before today. But still the Omega, his name was Kevin, trusted Sherlock to help him. Greg had thought he was stupid for doing it. It was more than obvious that Sherlock was a junkie, and no matter what a junkie claimed in a moment of drug induced brilliance, they were ultimately stupid. Or at least not smarter than the average human.

Sherlock though, despite his looks, seemed to be set out to prove them all wrong. No matter that his poorly mended clothes, the untrimmed and unwashed hair and the slight stubble told the tale of him going to rack and ruin. Never mind that his scent screamed cocaine under a thick layer of nicotine. And that wasn’t even taking into account the way pain would show on his face whenever Kevin dug his fingers into his arm just so. No matter his fine suit and public school accent, Sherlock screamed addict and seemed to have no problem with flaunting his lawbreaking habits right under an Detective Inspector’s nose. In that first second Greg had had half a mind to arrest him as well, but then Sherlock had shown off his most disconcerting behaviour quirk.

The man seemed to be completely immune to pheromones, or at least disregarded them as unimportant. At first Greg thought the guy was just high when he referred to him as that Alpha DI. And when he’d looked at Sally and asked her why she was here and didn’t her Alpha mind that she was out alone with a ragtag band of Alphas.  
But Greg had kept himself in check because the next words out of Sherlock Holmes’ mouth had been ‘obvious. Should have spotted it immediately. Didn’t you see that?’  
And then he’d already been out of the door again, leaving behind a confused police team and a worried Omega looking after him.

At first they’d just assumed that he’d run off with his money without doing the deed. But three hours later Sherlock Holmes had been back, with a look in his eyes that was much too sober for him to be high, and he’d still treated Greg like an Alpha and Sally like an Omega and he’d brought in a bag of evidence that would clear the Alpha’s name as soon as they got their own portion of it. Because no, just because Sherlock claimed he’d received it from the man’s cousin, and only because it fit into the scheme Sherlock was spinning in front of their eyes, it didn’t mean they could just take it. Greg had had the sudden urge to smack the back of Sherlock’s when the boy actually started whining, and on impulse he’d done something he’d never dared with any of his coworkers before. He stared into Sherlock’s eyes and growled, low in his chest and vibrating in his throat. And, to Greg’s surprise, it worked. Not good and not for long. But at least his _no_ was heard and Sherlock told them how to get ‘their share’ of the evidence.

After, when the Alpha was excused because he really had been at the other end of the city at the time of the murder, Sherlock had pulled out a note with a cell number on it and handed it to Greg with the words ‘in case you need help again’ before vanishing.

It hadn’t taken Greg long to learn everything he could about Sherlock Holmes. His name was unique enough that a simple ID check turned up a driver’s license with a familiar face on it and a DoD that laid almost twenty years back. The idea had Greg shuddering and for a moment he was almost grateful that he still wasn’t diagnosed. Sure, he still hadn’t met his mate, he was still not as physically fit as most of his colleagues, but he had a lovely wife and two beautiful children they’d adopted ten years ago. He’d only ever heard of the trouble and struggle that came with going through secondary puberty and Greg didn’t wish it on his worst enemy, especially not when said enemy was still a child.  
Another thing his research turned up, was that Sherlock’s file was suspiciously clean for someone who showed signs of long term drug abuse. But there were no obvious signs of tampering. So either Sherlock was very good at hiding his tracks, or someone else was.

Nevertheless, Greg couldn’t help but trust him. It was actually creepy, because intellectually there was no reason for him to trust Sherlock. He should only feel motivated to arrest him because he kept showing up just off a high or obviously freshly fucked. The man seemed to have no shame and didn’t hesitate to do his best to rile everyone up. But Greg also noted that he was never needlessly cruel.

No, when Sherlock Holmes said something was ‘obvious’ and ‘a child could have spotted it’, it wasn’t meant as an insult towards them. Or well, it was. But mostly because to Sherlock, those things were obvious, and likely had been obvious at a young age. With his uncanny eyes and deductive ability Sherlock could connect the dots that no one else could. And he’d being doing it as long as he lived. In addition Greg had to admit that it was funny, watching Anderson and Sally trying to rile Sherlock up, only to be offended at his off-hand remarks. He knew he should put a stop to it, on both sides, but he could only growl so often before it started hindering the investigation.

The growling obviously only worked in his own territory, or what Sherlock perceived to be his territory. He forgot it sometimes, when Sherlock was around, but as a Beta he didn’t have territory. Even his flat was marked as belonging to the territory of the couple next door. It grated on him, but most of the time he could just ignore that. Ignore the fact that he was generally treated like a child, even at close to 40 years of age.

Often Greg wasn’t sure what he should do about Sherlock and his habits. The urge to just lock him up was there, but so was the irrational trust in the man. Greg had already saved the number to his own cell phone and didn’t hesitate to call, or rather text, when he needed help. He didn’t even fell bad about it, because when he did need help the situation was usually dire. And if Sherlock caused him trouble and embezzled evidence again, Greg could usually get him in line by use of the low growling or a threatened drug bust. After all he knew where Sherlock lived and the rundown apartment building saw drug busts on a regular schedule. It just wasn’t normally Sherlock’s door that his colleagues knocked at.

The only time he was actually creeped out by Sherlock was, when an innocuous looking missive landed on his desk in late August. The enveloge had come by courier to be delivered into the hands of DI Lestrade and no one else. He’d signed for it and sat behind his desk to open the plain envelope to reveal the message within. Natural white stationary, official looking head and a hand writing that made Greg almost caress the paper. It seemed like a piece from a forgotten generation a hundred years ago, where people were still used to writing their letters by hand instead of letting a computer print them for you. The signature was short and crisp, just like the entire missive had been, and Greg sat staring at it for a while before he put it away in his personal desk drawer.

Whoever Mycroft Holmes was, and no matter his relationship with Sherlock Holmes, he definitely knew how to pull his punches. He also had a really beautiful handwriting. Strong and decisive but with a slight roundness to it, a tilt that made writing flow over the page and made you want to stare at it for hours. Greg had to admit to himself at least that he spend a little bit of time staring at the sheet.

The content wasn’t all that interesting or even heart-warming. It was more of the ‘if you actually dare arrest Sherlock Holmes, you will find yourself hitting the glass ceiling much faster then you’d like. Who knows, it might even move down a few stories’ variant. But Greg didn’t care. He just kept looking at the flowing script and wondering about the elusive Mycroft Holmes, who was at once concerned for Sherlock but at the same made sure to stay out of the way.

Greg didn’t want to find out what would happen if Sherlock found out about this Mycroft. Who knew maybe he was the dominant Alpha in their family and Sherlock had turned to drugs to get out of reach? Or he’d been disowned for doing something foolish like insult his great grand aunt on accident.

So Greg made sure to keep the drawer shut and locked at all times. He only called Sherlock in when there was actually need for him to bring unrest into his division, and even then he kept a close eye on the boy. After all Greg had no intention to risk his career just because someone else decided to arrest Sherlock for some stupidity or another.


	22. Mycroft 2006

**August 2006**

The thing Mycroft hated most about his job was mandatory heat leave. It was a normal part of employment, so he’d still have it if he didn’t work in this particular office, but it still grated on him. Especially since heat leave meant that everybody felt the need to make lewd comments of one sort or the other. The level of annoyance depended, for Mycroft, entirely on the amount of information they had about him. Specifically, if they knew about his secondary gender. 

Because while it was mildly annoying to have them tease him about going home for a week of getting fucked, of being put in place before he got back to boss them around. It was utterly disgusting when they assumed he was an Alpha. Then they commented of how nice it was, to get sex once without having to barter for it, how their Omega were so much more well behaved and wasn’t Mycroft already looking forward to his own pretty piece of ass? Or was it a lady, didn’t catch that.  
Mycroft would make noncommittal humming noises and then leave the group as soon as possible. Just because the Alpha got a week of heat leave as well didn’t mean they had to talk about it like that. It was difficult enough for the Omega involved. Mycroft knew from first hand experience, that going into heat wasn’t all roses.

Of course there was also group number three, whom Mycroft did his best to shun year round. Those were the ones who didn’t look forward, or at least enjoyed the non-optional leave. They were the ones with a more strained relationship. And they didn’t hide their opinion that heats were tedious and that there were much better applications for those free days than fucking their stupid Omega stupid. Those were the pairs that never married and they were the reason Mycroft was secretly lobbying for bond-separation research. It was a relatively new field of study, mostly lobbied for by Omega after the recently invented heat shot. After all if there were ways to suppress an Omega’s scent and even chemicals that completely stopped the heat, then there should be a way to break unwanted bonds. No Omega should be forever bound to their abuser, just because somewhere in the beginning nature thought they were a good fit.

Mycroft never voiced those opinions in public though. Sure, over the last ten years he’d made himself pretty much indispensable, but there were still enough people ahead who could make his life difficult. His advances were already hindered because everyone believed, at the very least, that he was a Beta. Only those who hadn’t met him personally yet believed he was an Alpha, an impression solely based on his written orders. Those were also the only work he could do from home, where he’d have to spend a week holed up with cold showers, heat dampening pills and a few toys.

Sometimes, when he laid in bed after a marginally satisfying orgasm, he wondered if it was possible to cheat on someone you didn’t even know. Because he still hadn’t gotten so much as a whiff of his Alpha. It was annoying, though it saved his independence. With an Alpha around, he likely wouldn’t be able to get up after a languid hour in bed to send a few mails and check in with his PA. She was a brilliant woman, an Alpha actually, and many couldn’t understand how they could work together. 9.7 out of 10 secretaries and 8.3 out of 10 PAs were Omega because it made for a clear hierarchy and better working relations. Of course, many high ranking Alphas just had their own Omega fill in for the position. Mycroft wasn’t sure if that was such a smart idea. After all seeing your mate every day, especially if you weren’t set for marriage but rather living in a partnership of convenience, working together would just put undue strain on it. 

But it wasn’t like he had to worry about that. Mycroft would do his best ti ensure that wasn’t his fate. He still held onto his dreams of finding an Alpha who was a real match. Who wouldn’t care that Mycroft was almost unnaturally smart. Who wouldn’t mind that Mycroft refused to give up his job for him. Someone who wouldn’t pressure him into staying at home and having babies. Someone who’d be able to see that no matter how much he was in control at work, he wouldn’t fight going down.  
But after working in his position for almost ten years, Mycroft was slowly loosing faith in Alphas. Especially those in positions of power. 

His daydreams, or rather his heat-dreams - Mycroft made sure not to dream off when he wasn’t home bound - had to take a backseat however, because apparently Sherlock had made an appearance again. And his brother had, as was his fancy, taken a spectacular fashion of doing so. He’d not only got himself involved in a MET murder investigation but also offended every officer involved that wasn’t the DI and cleared the supposed murderer by proving he was doing shady business somewhere else.  
Mycroft wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or annoyed. Mostly he was feeling overheated, but that had to wait. He needed to review the files his PA had send, so he could make sure he didn’t need to intervene. Mycroft didn’t delude himself. There was no way Sherlock was clean, just because he got himself involved in a police investigation. No, as far as he knew, his little brother would do his best to annoy them to the very brink of acceptable before pushing them over. But from the looks of it the DI had his party well in hand and well, Mycroft was more than ready to take his own matters in hand again too. It had been almost two hours after all. Quickly he penned a message to his PA before retreating to his bedroom once more.

Two weeks later saw Mycroft back in the rut of office work when a new report from the MET crossed his desk. It seemed like Sherlock had caught the attention of one of the DIs and was getting called in more. Unfortunately that came with more chances to annoy the team at the Yard and Mycroft had to quietly bury a report filed on Sherlock’s weird behaviour and obvious drug use.

It took Mycroft another month before he felt the need to actively participate in his brother’s life again. He knew it was a dangerous move. If Sherlock noticed that he was involved, he might just vanish onto the streets again when Mycroft had just managed to figure out his address. So he made sure to do it the old fashioned way. No emails. No official casual missive. No, Mycroft used his position to pen a letter on the good stationary and have it couriered to the Yard and delivered into the hands of no other than Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

For some reason the name alone had Mycroft nod and smile at the paper. It was as if he trusted the DI with Sherlock. Of course the man, a Beta - which was quite a surprise in his position - had already proved himself time and again when he didn’t arrest Sherlock. But still, Mycroft wasn’t sure he should be as trusting as he was. It was, after all, the reason he was writing this very letter. To ensure the Detective Inspector’s cooperation when it came to dealing with Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t trust the man. He shouldn’t trust him. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to trust him no matter how trustworthy he looked on his ID picture. He’d stand back and watch, making sure that Sherlock didn’t end up in prison after all. And as long as Detective Inspector Lestrade did his part, there was no reason for Mycroft to give him a personal visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends Arc 1 of this story. Everybody is in position and soon we'll have the long awaited reuinon.  
> Thanks to all of you lovely people who read and commented and left kudos and just stuck around to see how the story continues :)
> 
> I'll take a few days break to get a feel for Arc 2 and then I'll start on posting it
> 
> love,  
> Eryn  
> (entangledwood.tumblr.com)


	23. John 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome everyone to the Second Arc of Long Way Home! Now with beta support from the lovely Mich, who does her best to keep up with my spelling and grammar ♥
> 
> Starting today there'll be no more time jumps, or at least we won't skip whole years. We've arrived in the now and will see how our heros fare
> 
> accompanying the story is now a second work dedicated to meta and in story additional information. It will update with the story when and if I have supplementary material. (don't worry, I'll make sure to like it)  
> If you have additional questions or suggestions for meta, feel free to send them in. You can either comment here or on my tumblr entangledwood.tumblr.com
> 
> The first additional meta brings you a special from the latest issue of O!Mag, the trend magazines for Omega and those want to be them:  
> [ **What's your designation?** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957238/chapters/1891422)  
> _Try our quick quiz to determine whether you're a ferocious Alpha or a sweet Omega_

**November 2010**

Being back in London was both a blessing and a curse, John thought. A blessing, because he was no longer out in a war zone, no longer caught in the cross fire. But it was also a curse because he was back here, with a limp and a tremor and nowhere to go. He didn’t even have a job because the army didn’t need a limping doctor in one of their hospitals. Especially not one who showed all kinds of signs of PTSD.

Sometimes John wished himself back to Afghanistan, to desert and heat. He’d be back with his unit and his field hospital. Towards the end he’d almost begun to feel at home.

Service in Afghanistan had been vastly different to his previous combat postings. John had been uncomfortable at first, in a far away country with a culture so vastly different from his own. In the first week alone three of the locals had refused to be treated by him, claiming that it was improper for an Alpha to receive treatment from an Omega. They’d only relented after one man had lost a leg because infection had set in. Even then many people were weary of an Omega in such a prestigious position.

The children and Omega on the other hand were all more than happy to visit them. John was fairly sure that some even talked their Alpha into visiting him, just so they could discuss their heat problems from Omega to Omega.

But that hadn’t been his biggest source of concern. No, after the first two weeks he’d had much bigger problems. In retrospect it wasn’t surprising, and John wondered what other results the commanders had expected. Nonetheless he’d been completely blindsided when all of a sudden he’d had 13 recently diagnosed Omega in his office, all in varying stages of secondary puberty.

Most had come to Britain as refugees when the first war waged, but there were also some children of soldiers who’d fought that war, which drew some undue attention to their parentage.

Over the next month the number of diagnosed military assets reached almost a hundred and it became quite a scandal back home.

Especially since, oh wonder, many of the newly diagnosed had bonded with the local population. There’d been a lucky few, who had found their mate amongst the allied forces, but most often than not, the newly diagnosed Omega or Alpha had mates somewhere out in the Afghan wilderness.

John had worked double time for the next few months to ensure everyone’s safety. It shamed him to admit how often he’d had to stand between former colleagues or family members because apparently blood, honour, and even dignity were meaningless once you bonded. More often than not the Omega were met with hostility on both sides and in the end John had put his foot down. With backing from the base commander he’d turned a part of his field hospital into a quarantine station. He’d used it to shelter the pairs and allow them to get to know each other and bond without interference. And no matter how nervous the long-haired Afghan Alpha and veiled Omega made him, John had made sure that no one could interfere with the bonds or try to influence either of the parties.

Most of these unlikely pairs had stayed on base even after their quarantine, building the foundation for their strong relations with the local population. They’d been a blessing when the outright fighting ended and the focus shifted to humanitarian aid and upholding the peace.

But before John had been able to fully come to appreciate the budding peace, the building confidence and trust, he had to go and get himself shot.

And now he was back in London, a city which smelled so much of home that John wasn’t sure if he wasn’t simply hallucinating. After all, discounting that one first trip, London had never felt this comfortable. Not on any subsequent trip and not in the years he’d spent studying there. But John couldn’t allow himself to relax. Not when he needed a crutch to walk around and his therapist, a lovely Omega by the name of Ella Thompson, insisted he keep taking the heavy hormonal blockers until his shoulder was completely healed.

The doctors had been forced to administer them after he’d been shot as, even unconscious, he’d put out enough stress pheromones to put the entire hospital into a constant state of alarm. Since he was unbonded every Alpha, patients and staff alike, had reacted, so they’d finally given him the good stuff, the stuff that left you smelling like nothing, especially not yourself. Like a black hole in space John was the complete absence of scent. He didn’t even have his child days Beta smell. The hormonal blockers made that impossible, just like they kept him from going into heat or experiencing the natural reactions to the smells around him.

To cover it up John used scented deodorants and body washes that allowed him to pass for a Beta. The products were military issued, meant for people who had to mask their natural scent but obviously couldn’t be left completely scentless. Ignoring some very exotic medical conditions everyone had a scent. Even a corpse would retain its smell well past burial. John had once read that the victims in mass graves could be identified by their scent if the grave wasn’t more than ten years old.

Along with hormonal blockers John had also been prescribed an assortment of pain killers and sleeping aids, though he didn’t take the latter. He had decided early on that he’d rather suffer his nightmares than spend all days in the lethargy that pain killers plus sleeping pills left him in. Especially when he was still job hunting.

Right now John was living in a military bedsit. It was cheap enough that he could afford to stay for another few months with just his pension and savings. But unless he wanted to move in with Harry and Clara - who were still without an Omega - he needed to find some other place to say at. And a job that would enable him to pay rent.

The military had already made it clear that he wouldn’t be able to work for them. In fact he would only receive his pension and another half year of medical treatment. They’d suggested locum work, but the idea wasn’t exactly thrilling. Sure, he was a trained GP so there were theoretically even jobs for him. But did he want that? Did he even want to remain in London? Or should he move back to his parents’ home. It belonged to Clara and Harry, but they weren’t living in it. And since it was actually theirs and not rented, all John would have to pay for were utilities and food. His pension would allow for that without trouble, but unfortunately John knew he didn’t want to leave the city. It was the most thrill he could get nowadays. And even though he had nightmares of all the thrill he’d had in Afghanistan, John was honest enough to admit he didn’t want to move back to the village he’d grown up in. Especially since he was, at almost 40 years of age, still without an Alpha.

By now John wasn’t sure he’d ever bond or marry. Sure, his mate had to be out there somewhere - he refused to believe anything else. And yes, London felt like a warm embrace to him. But who would be interested in an Omega with a bullet wound in the shoulder, a psychosomatic limp, and nightmares? No, John entertained no illusions on that part. Even if he met his Alpha now, even if they bonded - that was by no means a given - they wouldn’t have the happily ever after that normally came after stories like his.

The Omega who was diagnosed young, grew up in a troubled home, and headed out into the world to find his place. He’d return to the city where he’d first felt at home to finally meet his Alpha and live happily together having loads of children.

No, John was sure his fate would be more along the lines of ‘and he died alone in a bedsit with a little window, smelling of nothing because he’d never been cured’. It was cynic to think that way, but as dark November turned into darker December, he couldn’t help it.

Harry and Clara were apparently fighting again, so John didn’t even ask to spend Christmas together. Instead he send a card to them, took a trip to his parents’ grave, and returned back to London shaking and relieved to be home again. He unpacked his presents and started writing a blog like Ella had advised. He even got into contact with some of his mates, who’d been moved back to Britain a while ago. Social contact was important, or so Ella told him.

But John wasn’t interested in social contact. He kept his part of conversation up just fine, sure, but he didn’t enjoy it any more. Not the way he’d enjoyed it back in Afghanistan, where he’d sat and drank tea with the locals and chatted in broken dari about whatever needed talking about.  
Today it was a good day if he could make small talk while ordering a coffee at the takeaway place a few streets over.

It was one of those good days, a cold January day around noon, when he limped past a bench in one of the nearby parks. The man, his smell said Omega, jumped up and hurried after him. He caught up to John easily and where John had expected another busybody asking after his artificial smell he was faced with Mike Stamford, his roommate from university days.

And John had nothing he could say, no argument that would get him out of this conversation. After all he had nothing but time these days. So like the good civilian he was John let himself be invited to coffee. They slowly continued their walk through the park and talked. Mike of course had a long list of interesting things to tell him. The children were ready to start high school, the students got more stupid every year, and his Alpha had just been promoted. John nodded at the appropriate times and in return shared some of his war stories. A bit about basic training, a bit about his base camp, and a bit about his current joblessness. He didn’t go into detail but he did admit his need for a flatmate. To which Mike replied, that he hadn’t been the only one to say that today.

So for all his politeness John won himself a trip to Bart’s - no, unfortunately they didn’t need more doctors - to meet an interesting friend of Mike’s. Who knew, maybe his hidden scent would be good for something, John mused. After all from how Mike described him, the man sounded like an Alpha. And most Alphas were disinclined to room with an Omega.

John would just have to wait and see.


	24. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to Arc 2 ^^  
> Thank you very much for everyone who left me comments and I'm happy to hear you're all enjoying the meta ♥  
> This time it's a leaflet for students who are thinking about their Academy and who come into the age-range where bonding is likely to occur. It's called [Am I bonded? and other frequently asked questions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957238/chapters/1899482)

Working for Scotland Yard had come with one significant advantage for Sherlock. And that wasn’t even taking into account the interesting casework. Consulting meant a steady income that was enough to move from his tiny apartment to a bigger one in a better location. It might make interaction with the homeless network more troublesome, but Sherlock – often enough – had reasons to want to get out of Mycroft’s grip for a while. So he’d disconnect his laptop and leave it at home along with his phone before he went out onto the street. He could still check his website from Internet Cafes and be gone by the time Mycroft had tracked him.

With more high profile cases Sherlock also got a bit more fame and more lucrative cases - not that he took them for the monetary benefit. But when a wealthy Omega searched for the man who was blackmailing their Alpha, Sherlock wasn’t one to turn the poor thing away. The monetary bonus was just that, a bonus, a little extra to keep the rent paid.

It helped, of course, that he’d stopped taking drugs - they unfortunately made for a bad reputation - and was thus not spending his money quite as freely. Though he’d taken up the habit of experimenting again, which came with its own costs. He could always borrow from St. Bart’s, sure, but that only went unnoticed as long as he moderated himself.

So Sherlock was still close to broke most days and once again found himself in the predicament of having to vacate his flat. Of course Mrs. Hudson, one of his first clients, had a flat she could rent out for minimum fee. But even that was more than he could afford on his own. So he’d gone to Bart’s and gave word that he was looking for a flatmate, effectively starting the local rumour mill while he went to do a bit of casework. He was sure that most technicians and lab assistants were already so cowed that if he found a flatmate here he would have free use of the flat.

When after lunchtime Mike Stamford came back with an Omega in tow, Sherlock didn’t pay him much attention at first. He’d just finished his analysis and it wasn’t like Omegas were interested in rooming with Alphas. Especially not unbonded, notoriously unbalanced and vicious Alphas like Sherlock. Yes, he had a reputation to uphold.

So he dismissed the Omega from his mind and asked Mike to borrow his phone. It wasn’t surprising when the Omega offered his instead. It was a nice and thoughtful move and so very Omega-like it had Sherlock bristling inside. It was rare to meet someone this predictable at an institute like Bart’s. Most cliché Omegas could be found at the nursing and midwifery school, not in the medical profession, and from what Mike had said, this doctor Watson had studied with him.

After sending the text Sherlock gave the man a more thorough looking over and had to immediately rectify his opinion. Because no matter how textbook courteous his action had been, John Watson was not your average Omega.

Swiftly Sherlock moved from his high chair and stalked up to the man, looking down at him easily. He didn’t have the slight built many Omegas had, but he was a good bit shorter than Sherlock and the detective found that uncommonly pleasing. Normally he didn’t care much about the height of people around him. But maybe it was an instinctual reaction to a man who might become his flatmate. A man who smelled decidedly little of Omega. Sherlock looked at the man critically and wondered what kind of secrets this man would bring with him. The first riddle of course was a more obvious one and as he had no intention to hold himself back, Sherlock went for the gold.

“Iraq or Afghanistan?” he asked, even as his hand lingered on John’s as he returned the phone.

“Afghanistan. How do you…” John began asking, but Sherlock quickly cut him off. The question was entirely irrelevant to their current topic of discussion.

“How do you feel about the violin? And can you live with someone without talking to him? I sometimes don’t talk for days on end.” Sherlock explained and then added “I think flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

The look of confusion and mental overload was priceless, but quickly replaced with a questioning one.

“What do you mean flatmates?”, John asked and Sherlock just grinned a little wider.

“Well, Mike returned with you looking quite smug, not even four hours after I gave word that I was looking for a flatmate. Obviously you are an old acquaintance, recently returned from the war, who finds himself in a similar situation and Mike feels he would be doing both of us good by having us meet.”

_Though it’s more good for me and a marginal improvement for you_ , he mentally added. No matter what people thought about him, Sherlock actually had a well developed brain to mouth filter. He also had a healthy sense of self-awareness so he knew living with him wasn’t easy.

“How do you know about the war?” John asked. He seemed obviously creeped out by Sherlock’s knowledge. The detective couldn’t quite understand it but remembered how much emphasis everybody put on ‘fitting in’ and ‘being normal’. “Did Mike tell you about me?”

Sherlock shook his head and launched into his explanation. It wasn’t something he normally did, but something about the Omega made him want to show off.

“No he hasn’t mentioned you and didn’t send a message ahead. I have merely deduced from what I observe. You are, clearly, an Omega, though unbonded, obvious from the lack of collar, marriage band or other jewelry or marking. You are currently living alone, though your military pension isn’t covering the cost of living in London, which further undergirds the unbonded observation. You are nonetheless at ease in your body, which means you have been diagnosed for at least 10 years and have learned to treat your condition accordingly. You have a military bearing but your hair is too long to be regulation, so you are no longer in service but the hair hasn’t grown out completely. You are looking for a flatmate to stay in London because your family either doesn’t want you to stay with them or you don’t feel comfortable around them. I would suggest the latter based on the phone, which is a present from one of your relatives, a brother most likely, who had a drinking problem as well as trouble in his bond. You want to stay in London because the alternative would be a rural area and you feel like you would be bored unduly without the hubub of the city to occupy yourself with.”

“Anything you’d like to add?” Sherlock asked almost as an afterthought, his tone making it clear that he wasn’t really interested in additions. It was, as surprising as it made him feel, simply a courteous question. Normally he couldn’t be bothered to engage in them, but something in the doctor made him want to indulge. John for his part just looked at Sherlock with amazement in his eyes, as was the proper reaction.

“Well, no… that was brilliant…” John said, obviously unsure how to react to the onslaught of information. Sherlock took the question from him by stalking towards the door. After all he had what he wanted.

“Very good. I already have my eyes set on a lovely place. The landlady is giving me a special deal and together we will be able to afford it easily. We will meet tomorrow at 7 to look at it. Now, I have to leave – I left my riding crop in the morgue,” he said, only to be called back by the Omega’s sweet voice when he was almost out the door already.

“Wait. Where is the flat and why should I even move in with you? I don’t even know your name”, John said, obviously attempting to regain his footage. Sherlock had no time for that, so he merely stuck his head back into the lab.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes. And the address is 221B Baker Street”, he said and then couldn’t stop himself from winking before letting the door fall shut. Sherlock couldn’t really explain it to himself. But after the short conversation he already felt high-spirited and with a spring in his step he headed down to the morgue. The bruises should be about finished and the analysis he’d just done gave a good indication that Mr. Pattinson couldn’t be the murderer, no matter what his Omega claimed. Instead it seemed more and more likely that the best friend of the victim might have been involved.

Down in the morgue Molly was already carefully examining the corpse. In front of her she had a piece of paper covered with notes and Sherlock once again wondered what had made an Alpha like her into a dormouse. Of course Molly still insisted on being a Beta set on the course for Omega. Sherlock was sure it came from her upbringing. Growing up in a family with an Omega mother and five older Omega sisters could do that to you. Sherlock had stopped trying to treat her according to her real secondary gender years ago and instead treated her the way she thought she wanted to be treated. If that set her out for heartbreak because no relationship with an Alpha would ever work and Sherlock himself was completely uninterested in her - mostly due to her feminine curves - then so be it. He wasn’t required to break down mental brick walls. If people didn’t want to see then they would just have to deal with the outfall once secondary puberty set in. 

Because yes, even at 30 years, Sherlock was still stuck in the old rut. It was as if the secondary gender was all that mattered. Even in the adult world, people were hung up about something that should be clear as day to everyone with half a mind to see. Sherlock mostly used it as proof nowadays, proof that people were unobservant and stupid and general nuisances. Not John Watson however. The Omega was a fascinating character and Sherlock couldn’t wait to get to know him better. But for now, he had to push the thought of the blond Omega to the back of his head. If he managed to finish this case today he could spend tomorrow moving into 221B Baker Street and be ready for John’s arrival at 7.


	25. Greg

As far as DI Lestrade was concerned, his latest case was among the most troubling of his career. Not only was it a string of seemingly unrelated persons committing suicide with an of yet unidentified toxin, the press had dubbed the whole thing serial suicides and asked helpful questions like 'what precautions can people take'/'how can people protect themselves'. And to make his day even better Sherlock bloody Holmes thought it funny to blow his press conference by use of mass text. There was no sound Greg hated more than fifty beeping cell phones in one room. It was even worse than Liliane's nagging, which was bringing him close to angry outbursts almost daily. It really didn't help matters that David had started High School and his PE teacher was someone Liliane knew from before. She never specified before what, but Greg was sure it was somewhere 'before marrying him'. Or rather making the mistake of marrying him. And Greg had to admit he agreed with her more and more. Over the last few years they’d felt more and more uncomfortable with each other. Meanwhile Greg’s enjoyment of work had progressively grown. He wasn't sure if it was everyone else’s decline or if long training finally paid off, but Greg found himself fitting into his role more and more. Not only as an officer but also as team leader he was commanding more respect and gained quicker responses - even Anderson followed his lead now when Sherlock came to visit. 

Greg was sure that, if it weren't for David and Sophie, they'd long be divorced. But for now they held together and Greg would only divorce her once he bonded. Or rather the bond would divorce her. It was after all law that bonded pairs were only allowed to wed each other. Only having sexual relations out of bond was already highly frowned upon. Greg was quite familiar with the results. More often than not it was him who was called in when a scorned lover or former husband took matters into their own hand by murdering their former lover's mate. 

Before he could further dwell on the state of his mostly ruined marriage Greg found himself drawn back to the present. His superiors were none too pleased with his snappy 'don't commit suicide' answer. But really, what else was he supposed to say when they couldn't make rhyme or reason from their evidence. Of course he also got chewed out for Sherlock's antics and was ordered to keep his consultant in check. As if Sherlock was merely his problem. Greg knew from trusted sources that he wasn't the only one receiving strongly worded missives from the elusive Mycroft Holmes. The man had yet to make an appearance, but Greg was quite convinced he was the head of the Holmes family.

Of course Greg knew better than to speak his mind. He just nodded and left the office and send Sherlock a sternly worded text. Shortly after he was called to the next crime scene, which forced him to send another text to Sherlock. It was also the prelude to another icy conversation with Liliane since he’d already told her he’d come home soon. The good thing was that he got to speak to Sophie to tell her to be good and give David a hug for him. It was always good to speak to his little girl and he felt more relaxed as he picked up his jacket and left.

In the car he reviewed the information Sally had relayed to him and when they reached the abandoned building he headed up the stairs immediately. Anderson was already waiting, but the man couldn’t tell him much past what he already knew or had suspected. The victim was an Omega, female, on a business trip, suicide by poisoning herself. ‘Rache’ had been scratched into the floor. There were likely a hundred little details he had missed that Sherlock would pick up with a glance through his pocket magnifier. But that, Greg thought, was what they were paying their consultant for. So he just warned Anderson and then headed down to the ground floor again to wait for Sherlock.

It didn’t take him long to arrive, but what Greg hadn’t been prepared for was the Beta following in his wake. An unassuming man with a crutch and a bland sort of outfit that made Greg think of harmless movie Betas who never left their home city and worked as personal attendants somewhere. Of course he knew that was a stupid view. After all he wasn’t a movie Beta either and this man, John Watson, likely had his own story as well.

What he was, Greg learned a few minutes later and some storeys up, was a competent doctor, if disabled by his leg. But what made him even more wondrous and someone to keep around, was the fact that he could somehow entice Sherlock into revealing and even explaining his latest deductions. Where normally they were left stumbling in the dark because Sherlock thought they didn’t need to have the secret revealed before Sherlock had positively unraveled it, John made him explain his deductions with just a little praise and seemingly naive questions.

Of course then Sherlock had to go and use up the entire good will of the division when he ran down the stairs and shouted something about pink. Then he was gone into the night, leaving a mostly confused doctor behind. But Greg had no time to play host to forgotten Betas. John could find his way back downstairs. Greg after all had information to work with and a warrant to acquire. Because what Sherlock had said was equal to a child counting down for a game of hide and seek. Though with Sherlock it was more a game of seek the evidence and then hide it. Fortunately flat searches were permitted by edict of His Highness Lord Mycroft Holmes, as Greg was fond of calling him in his head.

Luckily the judge had long since stopped asking when it came to the never quite closed drug investigation into one Sherlock Holmes. The man would just sigh and shake his head and put his name next to the date so Greg and his team could be off to Baker Street, which looked as much like a pigsty as Sherlock’s last dwelling had. It was as if the man had no use for order in his life. And from how the kitchen looked he also had no need for his life, what with toxic waste and body parts.

Into all that had to burst, of course, one Sherlock Holmes and one John Watson. Sherlock of course immediately claimed foul play and tried to play the ‘I’ve been clean for years now I don’t even smoke, see’-card. But Greg just rolled up his own sleeve and sent everyone back to work. Because yes, Liliane disapproved of his smoking and Sophie thought it was gross, so Greg obeyed the one who already showed all the signs of being a little Alpha and exchanged fags for patches and chewed gum when he really needed it.

They found the suitcase, of course they did, but then Sherlock caused a scene as was his fancy before using a GPS system to track a phone that was apparently inside the flat. That only had everyone searching harder to find the thing and in all the hubub some taxi driver appeared and then Sherlock was gone. Unfortunately Greg still had to box everything up and send his people back to the Yard. And before he could head home John Watson called in, because apparently Doctor Watson already had his cell phone number thanks to one obnoxious consulting detective.

By the time they arrived at the nursing school everything was apparently already over. The cabbie who’d murdered the people had been shot, the shooter was nowhere to be found, and the mere idea of writing the report on this particular incident already had his skin crawling. But at least Sherlock had made it out alive, even if he found the idea of a shock blanket ridiculous. Of course he did. Only he clung to it quite swiftly after he’d rattled off the identifying marks of their shooter. Greg quietly decided that unless the man made another appearance he’d just say there was no further evidence to be found. Because if he followed up on a lead provided by Sherlock Holmes the case would evolve into a mad chase sooner rather than later and Greg was not ready for that. 

Shaking his head Greg watched Sherlock leave the crime scene, walking down the illuminated road with John at his side. They were heading towards a stranger waiting a little down the road. They started talking and Greg found himself caught as if spellbound by the man standing with Sherlock and John. Greg was sure he’d never seen him before, but something was calling to him all the same, calling for him to step down the road past the yellow tape to get a better look. Maybe he could even hear the stranger’s voice. But before he could squander Sally came up to him to catch his attention and by the time he’d extracted himself from her clutches, all three were gone.

Greg just turned back to his work, slightly disappointed but also relieved that the source of distraction was gone. It would already be troublesome enough to try sorting this out. He didn’t need distracting strangers to eliminate all chances of doing it in a timely manner. Especially since he had disappointed Liliane the second evening in a row already. If he had to call her on a third day because he hadn’t managed to get his paperwork in order on his normal work time there’d be hell to pay. And Greg really didn’t want that. He wanted to go home and see the children and read Sophie a story while David sat close by to listen, though he insisted he was too old to have stories read to him. Of course Greg knew that David took up the mantle when he was gone working late again. After all little Sophie needed her bedtime story and mommy never got the voices right. So David sat with them and listened closely to just how to modulate his voice to give the white rabbit his manic air and how to make the mad hatter extra mad.

Some days it pained Greg to think that David already had to take that responsibility, but then he reminded himself that his son was making his own decisions, just like Greg couldn’t not do the work he did. Neither of his children would have it, and that alone was comforting enough to brave Liliane’s ire.


	26. Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The extra for this chapter is an excerpt from an article dealing with [premature diagnosis](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957238/chapters/1908399), a description which fits both John and Sherlock. It also features a lot of statistics at the end, most noticably the percentage of diagnosed in various age ranges

Mycroft often wondered why he was paying a man working at the St. Bart's cafeteria 2000 pounds a year for information regarding his brother. Most of the information was outdated and it came infrequently as well. But every once in a while, most likely when Mycroft had just decided to not refund this little pet project, the man called with actually valuable information. This time was no different. The call came just after lunchtime and revealed that Sherlock wasn't only looking for a flatmate but had even found a potential candidate. The name was Jon Wetson or something and he’d studied at Bart's a few years ago.   
Unfortunately the man knew neither address nor further information, but at least he'd given Mycroft a head start when it came to figuring out just where his brother had vanished to yet again. Mycroft really hated it when his surveillance agent had to report that Sherlock had once more vacated his flat without him noticing. 

The only one who always seemed to be up to date, was a certain Detective Inspector, whose career Mycroft was following closely. Not only had the man an impressive track record for only being a Beta, but he was also quite attractive, if Mycroft were to say so. Not in the way his colleagues were attractive or that military Alphas were attractive, but in his very own way. Mycroft wasn't ashamed to admit that, ever since he'd noticed the other man, DI Lestrade had helped him through more than one of his heat. Or at least the image of him had. After all the man was not so happily married to another Beta female and had two adopted children. It wouldn't do for Mycroft to whisk him away for a week of fun. Never mind what Sherlock would have to say to this. So Mycroft stuck to toys and mental imaginations and sometimes, desperate times called for desperate measures, he'd get out the personal file he had on the DI, with some of his most favoured surveillance shots of him.

DI Lestrade stripping off his shirt because he'd just fished a woman out of the river. DI Lestrade soaked to the bone but still ridiculously attractive in his clinging pants and shirt. DI Lestrade at the zoo, easily lifting his son up so he could see more. DI Lestrade straddling a suspect, holding him firmly in place with his body alone... 

Yes, Mycroft was more than fascinated with the man. But he knew how to keep his distance, how to spy from afar and make sure nothing untoward happened. Like him getting demoted because his superiors needed someone to take the blame and a Beta was always a good victim. Or his children getting ostracised because they were 'just' children to Beta parents. No, Mycroft had set an end to that problem before it could really take root and the offensive teacher had quickly found herself reassigned to a desk job far away from any children and their fates. 

But now was not the time to revel in past exploits. He had to find out where Sherlock lived now, as well as collect more information on this 'Jon Wetson', who had turned out be a John Watson after a bit of careful examination of past records and CCTV footage. From what his short resume said he was a male Omega, a doctor and a soldier, which made him as interesting as he would be troublesome. At least, Mycroft figures, John Watson would be able to keep Sherlock entertained outside the bedroom as well. Because no matter how distasteful the thought was, Mycroft knew of his brother's reputation. Sherlock had always been prone to sleeping around and had over the years had more than a few live in bed-warmers. Mycroft hoped Doctor Watson knew what he was getting himself into and wasn't just awestruck by Sherlock's charms and Alpha pheromones. After all even Mycroft sometimes struggled against the presence of control that Sherlock wielded like a well tuned violin. Just enough drag to get the desired effect. A pizzicato application to appear nonthreatening. A strong forte when he was tired of waiting or arguing. A crescendo when someone refused to see reason. Yes, much like himself, Sherlock was a master of modulation and acting. Now Mycroft only needed to figure out what opus Sherlock had played to ensnare the good doctor.

The next day Mycroft had Anthea pick up Doctor Watson from where Sherlock had abandoned him. It had been a surprise that Sherlock had even deigned to take Doctor Watson along to the case. Then again, the man was former military, which didn’t fit with Mycroft’s imagination of what an Omega was like. Yes, he was being a hypocrite, but 10 out of 10 Omegas he met seemed to confirm his assumption that he was an exception from the rule. But Doctor Watson might be the 1 in 10000, but that still left the statistics as 10 out of 10 - 9.999 was approximately 10 after all. Nonetheless Mycroft knew he needed to meet the man in person, so he sat in the warehouse office and used his phone to target, one after the other, every public phone Doctor Watson passed until the man finally got the hint. Once he got onto the phone though, the man was polite and complied easily, a trait Mycroft knew from many Omegas he worked with.

He watched over the CCTV as Doctor Watson got into the car with Anthea and then all that was left to do was stand and wait, the solitary lamp above him sending down just enough light to illuminate him and the chair in front of him. And where Sherlock knew how to play his violin, Mycroft played whole symphonies, so by the time Doctor Watson arrived, Mycroft was casually leaning on his umbrella, his whole posture shouting nonthreatening and powerful at the same time.

In silence Mycroft watched Doctor John Watson approach, his cane making a distinct sound on every step. Shoe, metal, shoe, metal, shoe, metal. A steady pace that ended abruptly when John reached the chair, leaning on his cane in a mirror image of Mycroft and his umbrella.

Mycroft could almost appreciate the comedy of it even as he offered John a seat. Here they stood, leaning onto their props of choice, dressed in the uniform of their class, both Omegas in unlikely positions, both bound to Sherlock Holmes in some way or another. This meeting would shape their orbits, not only in relation to Sherlock but also in relation to each other. With a thin smile Mycroft accepted Doctor Watson’s refusal. If the man would rather stand for this conversation, Mycroft would accept that. Of course with John in the chair it would have given Mycroft a better position, better leverage. But he wouldn’t force the issue. He still had a few inches on the good Doctor, he’d just have to use them.  
So he looked Doctor Watson over and made his first move.

It wasn’t even twenty minutes later when they were interrupted by John’s phone. How very Sherlock. Mycroft watched the emotions play over the doctor’s face and simply nodded when John said he needed to go.

“Go then. The car will drop you off wherever you want”, Mycroft said and then waited, watched as John turned and walked towards the car. Shoe, metal, shoe, metal. Mycroft couldn’t understand how Sherlock could stand it, but then again, his brother always took longer to seize what he wanted, to reach the proper conclusions, to draw the right strings. Mycroft had of course taught him all he could, but there was always outside limitation. Sherlock’s mind had hit the proverbial ceiling a few feet beneath Mycroft and his brother had never quite forgiven it.

Mycroft wasn’t surprised when John didn’t take the car. Instead he limped past it, searching for a taxi. Shaking his head Mycroft picked up the file he’d dropped on the table and then approached the car himself. He had no qualms about getting in and a look at his watch told him he was already late to the club. Of course there was no one meeting him there, no one to so much as acknowledge him or his absence. But Mycroft liked structure in his schedule. It meant that there were hours every day set aside for specific tasks where Anthea knew that only imminent threats to national security were sufficient to bother him.

And his daily visits to the Diogenes Club were one of them. Others were meal times as well as six hours per night Mycroft reserved for undisturbed sleep. He knew, of course, that such routine was a poor substitute for the real thing, just like latex and lube wouldn’t do as good a job as a real dick could. But still, he’d given up hope of finding his own Alpha, his dominant, the force that would give him the outlines in which to unfold. He’d gone through university unbonded, had learnt to live with his body on his own, and when he passed from university schedule to work schedule he made sure to keep it just as predictable. Because even where the subjects were no longer as clearly defined, the base structure always remained the same.

It was late at night when his personal news coverage alerted him to the latest predicament his brother had gotten into, and since he was curious about what doctor Watson’s role was in this, Mycroft had his driver take him to the scene. He didn’t approach of course. If he needed to throw his weight around, it was much better done from the safety of his office. After all, the twenty or so Alphas working the scene would immediately hone in on his scent, and that wasn’t something he wanted known just yet. Not when he had everyone deliciously intimidated of the faceless Mycroft Holmes, who could send missives with the queen’s sigil on it.

So he stood and watched and licked his lips faintly as he watched Detective Inspector Lestrade go about his work. His competence was noticeable even from his distant position and while Mycroft would have likely picked up on another hundred details, the DI had his team in check and could get honest answers out of Sherlock before sending him off.

By the time his brother reached him, Mycroft had schooled his face again and was watching carefully how Sherlock and John joked with each other. It was relaxing as always to trade barbs with his brother, because no matter what words they used, at least they were acknowledging each other, and showing that they cared enough to notice. Not in the casual way they always noticed, but the deeper layers. Like their shared amusement at John’s surprise about their relationship.  
And then Mycroft stood and watched John Watson walk away again, Sherlock at his side. And since it was a job well done, Mycroft turned and indulged in a little more police watching before he got back into the car. He still had an hour of work before it was time to sleep.


	27. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's additional meta deal with [Territory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957238/chapters/1912161) and it's meaning in this verse

It only took three days for John to regret moving in with Sherlock. He hadn't minded the first few days much. The action had felt good and the thrill of case solving even took care of his psychosomatic limp.  
Unfortunately living with Sherlock Holmes was not good for anybody's peace of mind. The man was outwardly unorganised but would notice immediately when John tried 'cleaning up' and 'putting things in order'. He had a habit for bizarre and seemingly dangerous experiments and couldn't be bothered to make a cup of tea. Hell, Sherlock couldn't be bothered to fetch his phone from his own pocket.

And John was absolutely not willing to play maid. He knew of course, that people would expect it of him. After all he was an Omega living with an Alpha and wasn't Sherlock his mate? But even if they weren’t mated, people would still expect the Omega in the house to perform domestic services. Of course John knew how to do that. He knew how to put fantastic homemade biscuits on the table before preparing a spectacular dinner, all the while looking classy and submissive at the same time. But John didn't want that. He hadn't moved in to be Sherlock's housekeeper. He had moved in because he needed a place that wasn't a bland bedsit and living with the consulting detective was likely interesting.

Unfortunately John had to fight tooth and nails for his part of the flat. He had, of course, his own bedroom. John had been embarrassed at Mrs. Hudson's assumption, which had made the poor woman flutter and mumble and tell them about the married unbonded couple living next door. John knew it wasn't usual for Alpha and Omega to live as a pair without them being bonded. And with Sherlock around there’d been no doubt left about John’s diagnosis. And John knew that he would quickly become part of Sherlock's territory now. He'd be expected to tell Sherlock where he went and in return he could rely on Sherlock to protect him and their home. Only that John didn't want someone to protect him. At least not like that. He was able to defend himself. And John wasn't willing to let just any Alpha defend him - that was a task he reserved for his mate. But before they even had to deal with that problem there were a heap of more pressing matters. Like the fact that his belongings were currently confined to his room and one square foot on the table. The rest of the flat was taken up by Sherlock. John wouldn't have it. Just because Sherlock was an Alpha didn’t give him the right to decide the layout of their flat. And if John had to throw out experiments forever to keep his shelf free, then so be it. John would defend his part of the flat - and his peace of mind.

That had been the plan, but now, three days after he'd shot the murderous cabbie, Sherlock was suffering from case withdrawal, whining about boredom and bothersome people and how his mind needed to work. Of course, just like the Alpha that he was, Sherlock scoffed at the idea of tidying or maybe doing the groceries or heaven forbid preparing dinner while John went for one job interview or another. John had half a mind to strangle the man so there'd be something to investigate. But he didn't go through with it. He recalled mental exercises, calming pictures, and made Sherlock eat crappy take out for dinner. Because with the bio-hazard that was their kitchen, John refused to prepare dinner.

Job hunting still wasn't going well. There was apparently no room in London for an Omega doctor. Omega nurses, sure, Omega secretaries, can you start yesterday, Omega receptionists, we'll have your uniform ready tomorrow. But Omega doctors were only acceptable if they were working as consociationists or pediatricians, neither of which was John's specialisation. He wasn't interested in bond physiology and he didn't work well with children. He could look after them, sure, but sick children were a force onto themselves and John was not willing to deal with it daily.  
So he kept searching for someone willing to take an Omega GP and actually allowed him to do his work. Because there was no way he'd take a job where he was kept on hold in case someone explicitly asked for an Omega physician. He wouldn't sit in the second row when he could work next to his Alpha colleagues just as well. He just had to find a boss to support that belief.

And all the while John had to make sure Sherlock didn’t do something stupid like kill himself on accident. John was sure that most of what Sherlock did was calculated, but there were always accidents and surprises, especially when doing scientific experiments. And since they didn’t have a fume hood Sherlock might just kill himself with his science. And complain that it was boring all the same.

The only problem in his well thought out plan, the only reason he hadn’t given in yet and applied for a flat in an Omega house, was that he couldn’t. It was ridiculous to say it like that, but John couldn’t. He thought about it, sure, especially when he came home and found out that two hours were apparently enough to spray paint a wall and then shoot it. But the idea of leaving Sherlock Holmes to his own devices was even more scary. Not least of all because he feared for Sherlock’s own life. After all who knew when he would finally get himself killed? And even though John had only known the other man for less than a week, John would mourn him. He didn’t know why or where the connection came from, but John felt drawn to the man, drawn to orbit around him. Maybe it was because of Sherlock’s scent, or his good looks, or the fact that John didn’t need a cane to go to the grocer any longer.

John had never felt like this before. Especially not around another Alpha. He’d been comfortable rooming with Mike during university, and he’d felt close to his friends in the barracks. But never had he felt like he actually needed them around. Because that was what it was, a physical need for him to stick around and make sure Sherlock was well and didn’t kill himself on accident. It was almost like what people talked about when they referred to their mate. But John knew that couldn’t be the case. After all they were both diagnosed already, which meant that they should have bonded quickly after meeting. Half a week of near constant contact had passed and there was still no bond. In addition there was the ten year age difference, which made them highly unlikely to be a pair. And Sherlock was showing none of the normal Alpha imperatives. No territorial behaviour regarding John, no policing about his whereabouts - not that John would have accepted those anyways - no heightened amount of smelling and or touching. None of the safe indicators that meant they were a match.

But no matter what the real reason was, John didn’t want to move out. He didn’t want to give up his first source of steady social contact, even if it came in the form of a sulking detective, who shouldn’t look this good wrapped in a dressing gown and inside out pyjamas. And even if that meant he had to live with one square foot for his laptop and the newspaper. Before Sherlock cut it up of course. And even if it meant crappy, or not so crappy, take out because Sherlock refused to leave one shelf of the fridge bare. That really was all John asked. One shelf for fresh groceries so they could have something that didn’t come in a Chinese paper box with wooden chopsticks.  
John knew that such hope was futile, so until they started fucking and they could install a second fridge in his old bedroom to hold the chemicals and experiments, take out it was.

Because yes, John didn’t entertain the illusion that he’d refuse Sherlock. The man was gorgeous, even if he could be rather obnoxious and typical Alpha high-handed. If Sherlock decided to take an interest in him, John wouldn’t refuse sex. Why should he? He hadn’t met his Alpha yet and he was sick and tired of waiting for him. 26 years - or 29 if he wanted to be cynic - was more than long enough for his Alpha to find him. And John wasn’t about to deny himself pleasure when it came in a package like Sherlock Holmes.


	28. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people, sorry that it took me so long to get to this chapter. Further updates will be slowed down due to studying, but I promise I will get this finished by the middle of October at the very latest <<"
> 
> Thanks a lot to all of you leaving lovely comments and Mich, who's still hard at work fixing my glaring mistakes

Sherlock was sure that moving into 221B Baker Street had been one of his more brilliant ideas. Not only did he have more room than in his old flat, he also had a very accommodating landlady, and best of all with the flat came one John H. Watson. Admittedly, John had moved in with him and wouldn’t have been in the flat otherwise, so he wasn’t a part of the flat but instead a benefit of needing a flatmate to pay rent. But Sherlock wasn’t being picky concerning the reason of John’s presence. No, all that mattered for him was that the other was around.

It was almost disconcerting for Sherlock, who wasn’t prone to being clingy or even getting attached to someone. Sure, he had liked the Omegas living with him so far, but that hadn’t been about them. It had been about the benefits that came with having them around. Someone to clean and cook and have sex with. They had of course had their own reasons to move in with him. Mostly it had been for protection and getting off the street, but some had also stayed around because they’d liked him and they believed they could make him like them in return. Sherlock had rectified that quickly.

But that wasn’t why John had moved in with him. For John, Sherlock wasn’t a matter of convenience. And if he dared vocalise that John was with him for protection, Sherlock was sure he would risk getting shot, or stabbed. John was not in need of protection, which was refreshing. It was also infuriating, because Sherlock’s Alpha senses were insisting that he needed to look after John. He was restless as long as he didn’t know where John was and he found himself obsessively texting his flatmate to ensure his whereabouts. He also always knew where John was inside the flat. Even when he was sitting on the couch with his back to the flat, his nose and ears would accurately tell him where the Omega was.

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure he was okay with that because he wasn’t usually that attentive. None of his former flatmates had needed this much surveillance. Or if they did it was because Sherlock had needed to guard his drugs carefully. But not from John. If John found drugs in the flat - of which there were none - then he’d likely throw them out. It wasn’t desirable of course, but at least he wouldn’t be forced to deal with a stoned flatmate.

Instead he had an independent Omega, who was willing and able to think for himself. One who didn’t hesitate to make his own decisions. He didn’t back down even when Sherlock refused his requests and he didn’t let Sherlock dictate his life. It was refreshing, if a bit annoying when he really just wanted to be left alone and sulk. Plus John was happy to throw out his experiments. It was heinous and spoke of John’s familiarity with chemical and biological waste. After all no one else would dare touch a petri dish with unidentified mold cultures or a foot with carefully established maggots. 

John didn’t care about that. Or at least he wasn’t afraid of it. He complained at length about Sherlock’s experiments and kept a box of latex gloves ready in order to remove whatever experiments invaded ‘his’ shelf of the fridge. And the same happened to everything that ended up on ‘his’ part of the cupboard as well. It was quite annoying because every cupboard had its own microenvironment. Sherlock needed ‘John’s’ cupboard. But after the third carefully prepared dish had been unceremoniously dumped Sherlock had stopped invading that shelf. He was still on the fence about giving John one of the fridge boards, but John had promised real food if he could have it. Unfortunately Sherlock had no idea what ‘real food’ constituted for John Watson and right now his experiments were the only things keeping him from dying of boredom.

The worst times were, of course, those where John wandered from the flat and insisted that Sherlock didn’t accompany him. As if it wasn’t obvious that John was an Omega. People on the street seemed to, as usual, not notice anything, but Sherlock saw all the little details that screamed Omega. Not fragile, not weak, but something to be protected nonetheless. Something for Sherlock to protect. And still John insisted on leaving, on wandering not only inside the flat but also outside. Outside of Sherlock’s territory even, which included the whole of 221 Baker Street. After all he was the only Alpha living in the building and the people at Speedy’s cafe were not around often enough to claim it as theirs.

It meant of course that Sherlock had to roam the halls frequently, but that was the least of his worries. After all when John was asleep and Sherlock was restless no one bothered him. He could sneak downstairs and check the windows in the other apartments and make sure the cafe door was firmly locked. Afterwards he could get back up and take a look into John’s room. More often than not Sherlock would find himself mesmerised, standing in the doorway, eyes fixed on sand blond hair sticking up from behind heavy blankets. He would look and smell and take in all that was John Watson at rest. It was a most formidable image, even when John stuck his feet out at the bottom of the blanket, only to thrash at the cold five minutes later.

Sherlock never touched him though. He knew about his flatmate’s nightmares and also knew that it would be stupid to disturb him from them. John would lash out at him and it would blow Sherlock’s cover. After all John had no idea that he was being watched. His flatmate was convinced that Sherlock didn’t wander upstairs and in fact only moved between his bedroom, the kitchen, and the couch. And Sherlock had no wish to shake that assumption. It allowed Sherlock to move freely as long as he stayed out of John’s notice and meant that John didn’t hide things. Not in the bedroom Sherlock supposedly never entered.

It had been the reason for his first personal fit. Sherlock was ashamed to admit it, but he’d almost broken his own rules of leaving everything like he’d found it. Because he’d opened John’s bedside table and found in the lower part, the one with the key, an assortment of heat relieves. That was the official name for the assortment of sex toys. They were medically prescribed helpers for unbonded Omegas and they made Sherlock growl low in the back of his throat. John shouldn’t need something like that. His doctor should have no reason to keep N artificial penis with substandard knotting attachments, when he had an Alpha with a perfectly working dick.

Only Sherlock wasn’t John’s Alpha. It pained him to admit it, but there was no bond between them. No connection. No instinctual knowledge about his Omega’s whereabouts. Of course Sherlock hadn’t felt his mate near for years now. In fact after the first time, there’d ever only been dissatisfying whiffs of half-clear scent, usually old and stale and blown in from afar. He knew of course that his Omega was somewhere. There was no reason for him not to be. But as much as Sherlock enjoyed John’s presence and hoped for a chance at something casual with him, they were both old enough that they should have bonded as soon as they moved in together, if not earlier. Their date of diagnosis was twenty years in the past. Their bodies were both more than ready for a bond to form. 

And Sherlock found himself craving it more than usual. More than he’d craved it even at the height of his Academy days, with Omegas throwing themselves at his feet left and right. He craved binding John to him, binding him to his bed. He fantasised about bending John to his will, to watch his doctor on his knees for him. He dreamed about John on all fours on his bed, ready to be breed, ready to bear their children. And Sherlock didn’t keep himself from enjoying those visions. Never mind that he hadn’t even seen John so much as shirtless yet. It was after all still January and John was a very modest Omega. He didn’t even leave the bathroom without being at least partly dressed with his own dressing gown to cover the rest.

But that didn’t keep Sherlock from imagining, from deducing. He knew almost everything one needed to know about John Watson after all. He knew his profession, his past professions, his habits and his looks. He knew how his face looked when he slept, and how he couldn’t type faster than a child. He knew how John took his tea and what take-out he preferred and all that was more than enough to deduce what his body looked like. The hard planes that were going soft as he no longer kept up with his old PT regime. The scars that could be found in different places, the most prominent of all the shoulder one. Sherlock knew that John’s body was slowly returning to the Omega idea of round hips and soft skin, of long hair and painted nails. Not that John was one for nail polish and shoulder length hair. Not like most other Omegas. But Sherlock didn’t mind. He didn’t need an Omega as decoration. 

For decoration he had the skull, which was still better conversation than an actual human. With John Watson once again as a pleasant exception. John had had Chemistry classes at university, he was interested in field work, he had seen death and was always delighted to listen to Sherlock’s deductions. Unlike his former flatmates and decorative pieces John seemed ideally suited for living with Sherlock. Strong willed, good looking, quick minded - if not quick enough to keep up with Sherlock - interested, accommodating but ready to put his foot down when an issue concerned him.

The only problem that was infuriating Sherlock was, that for all that John was ideal John wasn’t his. There was still, after a fortnight, no bond forthcoming. Of course John was also still taking medication. Sherlock had yet to discern what it was. These days most Omegas used contraceptives, but those were normally taken the week before the heat exclusively, to be finished with a subcutaneous injection the day the heat started. And John wasn’t going into heat. He was taking the medication for something else. But John didn’t explain what. All he said was, that his doctor had prescribed them after he got shot and that he was reducing the dosage slowly. Maybe they were what kept them from bonding? Sherlock had noticed that John’s scent was mucked up, so it was possible. Sherlock just hoped that when they were all gone Sherlock would get what was his.


	29. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To say things are heating up would be an unterstatement
> 
> if you want to cool down head over to the additional information [to see why Sherlock sucks at this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957238/chapters/1935790)
> 
> Also remember that this story comes with consent issues

They were two months in and life at Baker Street was coming to a head. John still didn’t have a proper job because no one needed an Omega GP. Sherlock was refusing cases because they were boring, even though they promised good money. John felt almost bad about refusing Mycroft’s offer. It’d have been enough money to pay rent and get groceries every month all for a bit of false information submitted in writing somewhere. But no, John had played the hero and refused it. He didn’t need charity and he wasn’t one to lie to his friends, even if he hadn’t known that Sherlock would become a friend at that time.

And to come along on top his natural scent was back. Not completely, but he’d taken the last pill just yesterday and within the week his hormonal cycle should be evened out again. Ella had also told him he could expect his heats to pick up immediately, and wasn’t that something to look forward to. He’d supposedly missed two heats due to his medication so he had good chances that his next heat would be twice as fun. Oh joy. It had brought on the usual awkward questions that no Omega wanted to be asked. Do you have someone to share your heat with? Do you need a heat shot? Do you want one? Do you have heat relievers? Are they up to date? Were they satisfying the last time you used them?

Well, John had no idea if Sherlock would be interested in sharing his heat, though he also knew that his smell would be all over the flat. The pheromones would slowly drift down the stairs while he tried to use a mediocre vibrator to replace a real dick. They’d drift down and waft through the living room and then the kitchen before finally creeping into Sherlock’s bedroom. As long as Sherlock was home it wouldn’t take more than three hours for Sherlock to know and make his choice. Because it was his. John wouldn’t turn him away. Of course, being in heat he would also be pretty much unable to turn him away. Alphas produced their own pheromones in return to Omega heat scent. The heady mix he’d smelled at the Academy and later in the Army, that heavy smell of domination and aggression that made his knees tremble and his head fall forward to bare his neck. John entertained no illusions. If Sherlock wanted him then not even a locked door would stop him.

So John asked for the heat shot and assured Ella he was able to set the injection himself, he just needed the prescription for the pharmacy. But it was just a precaution and his heat relievers were up to date and in good working order, thank you for asking.

The alternative to staying at Baker Street was of course finding a remote hotel to wait out the week, or to pay an arm and a leg for someone to take care of the problem. Well, he needed his arms and legs, so he couldn’t go down that route. Plus, John wouldn’t let a complete stranger fuck him. And remote hotel would only work as long as there were no Alpha employees or guests around. After all a locked door wouldn’t really hold the others out. And since the heat shot needed to be administered on the first day of the heat, his scent would be all over the area. The shot would suppress his hormonal output almost completely, but the few hours before the heat set in completely and the injection could be set were enough to spread an Omega’s scent through a whole building.  
Thus staying at Baker Street was both the best and the worst option.

Either, Sherlock picked him up on the nonverbal offer and they’d have to deal with the whole ‘semi-consensual’ sex - yes, that was the official term for it - issue afterwards. Or Sherlock refused him and pushed John into self-doubt. After all he was past his prime, yes, and he had scars, right. But still, being refused in a state where ‘semi-consent’ applied to both of them was pretty harsh. No matter the can of worms they opened if Sherlock took him up on the non-offer.

But no matter how it went, John still had about a week of fretting in front of him, which would easily drive him mad in the meantime. Which had the benefit that once his heat came he wouldn’t care about it either way, he would, after all, already be crazy.

Of course his life wouldn’t even give him that small comfort. No, suddenly, with the end of his medication, everyone seemed to go crazy around him. He had a job, Sherlock had a case and John found himself outside more than he wanted, with everyone leering at him once again. It reminded him why he hated being an Omega out in a civilian population so much. Everyone made assumptions about you and you couldn’t just floor someone to make your point. No, you had to be nice and soft and accommodating or else you were a frigid wilful Omega, and really boy, don’t you have an Alpha to beat that out of you?

Just a week was enough to remind him why things had been better in the army. So much more uncomplicated. And in the hospital. Everyone was nice as long as you held the big needle. But that wasn’t worth shit out in the street where he had to brave sexist sales assistants and biased HR managers and overworked social workers. Top that off with people like Sebastian Wilkes, who made John’s skin crawl the moment they stepped into his office and John was about done.

Then of course the height of the chase had split him and Sherlock up and he had to run around town alone, which drove the point home that it really was easier to have an Alpha at your side. Because even if you weren’t bonded, that person’s claim on you was stronger than that of a stranger. And wasn’t it sad that in this day and age you still needed something like social ownership so people would accept your personal space.

To top it off the date he’d gone on with his future boss, a wonderful Alpha named Sarah, whose bondmate was working somewhere else and they had an open relationship, had not only been busted by Sherlock but also the Chinese Mafia. It had had a rather movie worthy showdown with Sherlock saving the day. But it had also been the end to his budding social relationship with Sarah.

And now he was back at Baker Street and they were enjoying their take out and John could feel his skin tingling. He wasn’t sure if it was residual sweat or sewer water or the latest mold culture growing on the kitchen table. But whatever it was it was driving him crazy and it seemed to affect Sherlock similarly. Because where normally the detective would be gloating about his deductions or glumly complaining about boredom, today he couldn’t seem to sit in place for more than five minutes. He was up at the table one second, checking on his mold culture next before fetching something from his room before sitting down to eat a few bites, peck away at his latest blog post, and then disappearing into the bathroom.

It would have been funny to watch, if it hadn’t been driving John insane. He was constantly following Sherlock with his eyes and found it unusually disconcerting to have Sherlock out of his field of vision. Instead he’d find himself staring at the door and the windows as if ensuring they were all still closed. He couldn’t help but scoff. The Chinese Mafia wouldn’t be knocking at their door any time soon, John was sure of that. But still, he couldn’t help but feel weary and uncomfortable in his own skin as he decimated his take out. Because he really wasn’t cooking after cases. No. The fridge shelf reserved for food only held enough for one dinner at a time plus two times breakfast, so cases left the shelf empty and them getting take out.

Once he had decimated his chicken and rice John was summarily sick of watching Sherlock pace and scoff, so he excused himself. His skin was tingling even more now and since scratching his arms didn’t help, John decided on a shower before sleep.

The icy water seemed to help at least a little, cooling him down to sensible levels. And with the soft pyjamas instead of coarse jeans, his skin was much more forgiving already. He said his good night when he passed Sherlock in the living room and just playfully pushed him away when Sherlock leaned in to sniff him. He did that sometimes, especially after showers, usually to complain about the beta body wash. But then again, he hadn’t used that in a while. Before he could think too much about that he was already up the stairs, Sherlock’s eyes digging into his back from the bottom of the stairs.

Shaking his head John closed the door behind him, hung his dressing gown in its place, and crawled into bed. He was likely too exhausted and making things up, he thought as he set his alarm for the next day. He had work at eight and wasn’t that a wonderful thing to look forward too when the clock blinked 2:16 at him. Firmly closing his eyes John pulled the blanket higher and turned off the bedside lamp.

 

The next morning John was woken by a feeling of wetness, by a double feeling of wetness, one between his legs and a second all over his skin. Make that triple feeling of wetness, because there was something running up the back of his neck, something that made him sigh contently and push his forehead down into the pillow just so the sensation wouldn’t stop. He gasped pleasantly when teeth nipped his exposed neck and he relaxed further into the sheet when his attempts to stretch were summarily stopped by the broad hands wrapping around his wrists.

Wait, hands wrapping around his wrists? Cursing John backed up and started thrashing, mentally berating himself through the haze for missing the obvious signs.

Skin irritation, icy showers, and come to think of it the food hadn’t tasted all that swell either. Sherlock’s restlessness and smelling. All textbook and he hadn’t seen it.

He tried to buck Sherlock off of him, but all he managed to do was rub his slick ass against Sherlock’s crotch. There were a heavy blanket and two layers of clothes separating them, but it still turned his body liquid as he felt the heavy pressure against his ass.  
Whimpering he fell back down, but at least he managed to turn his head to look up at Sherlock.

“S-Sherlock stop. I, ah, we can’t do that now,” he gasped, but Sherlock just used the chance to nuzzle his cheek and kiss his lips firmly.

“Relax, John.” Sherlock said, voice raspy against John’s ear, “you don’t need to worry. I took care of everything for you. I called Sarah and told her what was going on and I gave you the injection. See, I left it on the bedside table for you,” he added before he went back to licking and nibbling on John’s throat.

The doctor craned his neck and saw the familiar syringe, plunger fully depressed. Intellectually John knew that he should have no reason to trust Sherlock. Who knew if he’d set the injection correctly. Maybe he had just put the medicine down the drain and left the syringe as evidence. But then again, Sherlock didn’t want children, or at least he hadn’t said so before. And, hmm, the Alpha above him smelled divine, and felt divine, especially with his hips pushing down rhythmically through the blanket. Yes, he should just lay back and enjoy this before Sherlock came back to his senses again.


	30. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update at once if convenient ;)
> 
> with a handy extra [about the territorial behaviour of Alphas](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957238/chapters/1937069)

Sherlock had noticed it long before John had. Down in the tunnels the sweet smell had led him to the place where the Black Lotus held captive what was his. Sherlock had known that Sarah had smelled it to, and Sherlock had made sure to give her a meaningful look, one Alpha to another, that clearly said hands off. She'd nodded and he'd taken John home. They'd picked up take out on the way home where the real torture began. Like most people John wasn't aware of his own scent. He didn't seem to notice the delicious nuances that told Sherlock that it was almost time. Just a little more and John would be in heat and Sherlock could have what was his. 

Because he'd deduced it ages ago, when John had finally told him about the hormonal blockers. He'd understood that they were what blocked their bond from forming completely. And when John reduced the dosage and his real scent started to creep back in Sherlock felt himself react accordingly. He was more territorial now, and John suffered it gracefully. He was also more dominating and John acquiesced until Sherlock hit a limit that John then made clear to him. All that was really missing, Sherlock knew, was their first shared heat. That magic moment where the fragile bond was solidified, the sweet union that would cement their relationship, that precious chance to conceive their first children. Of course Sherlock knew that John had a heat shot in his bedside table, a scent suppressant mixed with a contraceptive. But Sherlock also knew those had a 50% chance of failure in a couple's first shared heat. So Sherlock would just have to hope for the best.

And until then he was forced to pace and wait and hope that John didn't do something stupid like try to leave before his heat really set in.

Luckily his flatmate was still oblivious and only took a long shower to ease his burning skin before heading up to his bedroom. Which only had one entrance. Which meant that as long as Sherlock stayed in the living room no one would get to what was his.

Of course that meant he’d have to stay awake until it was time, but that was okay. Already Sherlock could notice the scent progressively getting stronger. All he had to do was keep calm until it was time to start. Until then he could… do something… nothing complicated, because as much as it pained him to admit it, Sherlock’s mind was already preoccupied with monitoring John as well as the entrances to the flat. He just needed to hold out a little longer and he wouldn’t let someone else snatch John away in the meantime.

 

In the end Sherlock preoccupied himself with trapping the flat and barring the door. No one would be able to enter the flat without risking bodily harm or even death, Sherlock had made sure of that. He had after all enough toxic substances and sharp weapons to safely guard every exit without having to be present. He did have the courtesy of warning Mrs. Hudson. She received a note tucked underneath her door, just in case the smell didn’t alert her of what was going on already. After all she hadn’t noticed that John’s scent was off either when they moved in.

But Sherlock wouldn’t let her or anyone else keep him from John. Especially not Sarah. She received a phone call at 7 from John’s cell phone where Sherlock told her that, as she already knew, John was in heat and he’d take care of him. Please don’t bother him till next weekend.

Of course she hadn’t been all that happy about it, but Sherlock had the territorial sovereignty and Sarah knew it. After that issue was taken care of Sherlock went up to John’s bedroom. He made sure to close the door silently before he gracefully moved onto the bed where he straddled John easily. The smell in the room was already strong enough to make him dizzy and Sherlock deeply regretted what he’d have to do next, but John wouldn’t want to go forward without. He’d just have to make sure that John stayed in here afterwards so the smell didn’t dissipate. Slowly he rubbed his hips against John’s ass even while he got the syringe out from the bedside table. 

The package came with an enclosed alcohol wipe and small band aid. Sherlock used the wipe to clean a portion of John’s upper arm while his nose was nuzzling the other’s neck. It worked magic to ensure John stayed fast asleep. Carefully Sherlock pulled the cap from the canula and ejected the remaining air. For a moment he was caught in the sight of a drop slowly running down the metal. It had always held a fascination for him, even back when he’d shot up he’d been entranced by the sight of the clear solution running towards the ground. Such a deceptively innocent thing with such a strong effect. He held a bit of John’s arm between his fingers as he set the needle and carefully pushed it into the flesh. John winced but Sherlock placed a soft bite on his opposite shoulder and he calmed again beautifully. Slowly he depressed the plunger and watched the clear solution vanishing into John’s body, bulging the skin around the injection side before slowly deflating again as it was distributed into the body. Already Sherlock could notice a change in scent. It was minimal but obvious when Sherlock leaned close to pull out the needle and apply the band aid.

The injection site was almost scentless as the hormonal blockers worked to keep the heat pheromones from leaving John’s body. It was quite a shame, Sherlock thought. But maybe next time they could use a contraceptive that didn’t affect scent production. Smiling at the idea of a next time, Sherlock ground his crotch against John’s ass and then placed the trash on the bedside table. John would want visible proof that they were using protection. Still smiling Sherlock interlaced his fingers with John’s pushing his hands to the sheets. Time to wake his Omega up.

Of course Sherlock went slow about it. Gentle licks and nuzzling all over John’s exposed neck, a steady rocking against his ass mixed with firm pressure on his wrists. Underneath him John was stirring slowly. Sherlock noticed the exact moment he woke and was prepared for his struggling. But firm pressure was enough to keep him down and pliant, going so far as to bare his neck further for Sherlock to bite and kiss. Now all he needed was to get rid of the blanket. But before they could get to that, John woke completely and tried to buck Sherlock off. In reflex Sherlock growled and pushed down, eagerly drinking down the gasp it earned him.

“S-Sherlock stop. I, ah, we can’t do that now”, John whined and Sherlock leaned down to claim a kiss first before he nuzzled his way up to John’s ear.

“Relax, John”, he whispered, listening closely to the Omega’s breathing as he explained about the syringe. He let John rise enough to get a good look before he pressed him down again, lips now firmly attached to John’s throat where he was intending to leave a bite mark. Underneath him John was groaning and arching up against him, but Sherlock wouldn’t let John go. Carefully he pulled his hands together so he could use one of his own keep to John restrained. After all who knew what his Omega would get up to with his hands free. Maybe he might try to throw Sherlock off again.

Growling lowly Sherlock bit harder at John’s shoulder even while he used his free hand to push the blanket down and out of the way. It took a bit of maneuvering but Sherlock managed to not only throw the blanket off the bed, but also John’s pants. The smell was stronger now that it was no longer trapped and Sherlock found himself pressing down against John almost roughly. He wanted to get inside finally. He’d held out all night after all. But he couldn’t rush it, he reminded himself. The smell would diminish soon and Sherlock had no intention to let it go to waste. So he ignored John’s needy whine and twisted his Omega’s arms so that he could pin them against the small of John’s back. It was wonderful, feeling the Omega buck and strain underneath him without a chance to get away. Licking his lips Sherlock used his hold on John’s wrists to pin his hips to the bed. Then he bend down low over John again, lips and teeth worrying over his ear.

“Don’t fight, John. I’ll not leave you waiting. Don’t worry. You’re mine and I’ll take good care of you”, he whispered even as he licked and bit his way down John’s back. “You’re finally with me and I won’t give you up. I’ll have you and have you again in all the ways I imagined. Don’t be afraid, John, I’ll make you mine”, he gasped out between bites and kisses and sucking. John’s skin smelled divine and Sherlock did his best to lick the smell right off.

He worked his lips lower and lower while underneath him John was straining and making inarticulate noises. Apparently the Omega was more than ready for him and Sherlock had finally reached the source of the smell. Growling he licked his John’s ass, which drew an answering moan from John. So Sherlock did it again to savour the needy sounds his lover, no his mate, was making for him. But his self control was already wearing thin, so Sherlock pushed down his own pants and then licked a long line up John’s spine again.

Once he reached John’s shoulders again, he began to lick and bite his right shoulder, the one where John’s smell still managed to permeate the skin. Not the one where only stale residue remained. Carefully he positioned his cock and moaned when John pushed back in response. A low groan left him as he pushed down and inside, the ride made easy by how slick John was for him. He couldn’t help but dig his teeth into John’s shoulder now and underneath him his Omega was moaning and arching against the hold, struggling for leverage of some sort. But Sherlock wouldn’t have it. John was his and he’d take care of John. There was no need for him to do anything. 

Sherlock dug his teeth in firmly and pushed John down with both his hands, one around his wrists and the other on his hip. For a moment he just rolled his hips, low and steady and deep inside his mate. And once John had stopped struggling he started to fuck him for real, deep and firm pushes that made their bed rock noisily. He was licking the bite now, that one and the surrounding skin. It wasn’t bloody but that was a near thing. It was just a deep bruise and Sherlock intended to leave some more before the day was over. But until then he had more pressing matters to attend to.

Growling he pushed himself up to get a better angle. It also put him in a better position to look John over and the sight of him sprawled on the sheets, skin sweaty and ass and thighs glistening from his own lubricant was almost enough to have Sherlock lose it. But he knew they both weren’t ready for it. He could feel his knot swelling already, but it wasn’t ready. So he bit his lower lip and closed his eyes and let himself get lost in the slick heat around his cock. It wasn’t tight, no, it was slick and welcoming and if he didn’t wait for his knot to inflate properly his come would seep right out again. And that wouldn’t do. He would mark John, and breed him, and he wouldn’t be careless about it.

It still didn’t take long until Sherlock felt the first resistance. The knot was starting to make things difficult. As soon as John stopped making sounds of pleasure beneath him Sherlock pushed in deep and just rocked his hips in place. He let his hand slip from John’s hips to his cock, which was slick and hard in his hand and it didn’t take much to bring his mate over. And with that came delicious constriction and a sudden increase in smell, something like a last effort to entice him and Sherlock let it draw him over the edge, his hips pressing forward firmly to bury himself as completely as possible inside his mate. He could feel himself pulsing and John was whining high in his throat in response, so Sherlock leaned down and licked and kissed his neck, hand rubbing his stomach soothingly.

Carefully Sherlock rolled them to the side, his dick still firmly locked inside his mate, his hand still holding John in place. Hesitantly he released his mate’s wrists. After all John couldn’t get away now. There was no need to hold him in place any more. So instead Sherlock rearranged John’s hands in front of his chest, so he could rub his wrist and kiss his shoulder lazily while his cock kept twitching faintly, running through the lengthy cycle of breeding his mate. Sherlock knew that many Alphas cared much for this and it was a heady sensation, but it wasn’t as interesting as it had promised to be. Watching and listening to John was much more fun. John, who was clinging to Sherlock’s right arm now and gasping faintly with every twitch of Sherlock’s cock inside him. John who didn’t smell as good anymore but who was still his and smelling of Sherlock now instead. It was quite pleasant, if he were to say so.

So Sherlock stayed in place and petted his mate and let John cling to him. He seemed to be getting aroused again, the constant stimulation driving him from his first orgasm towards another. And Sherlock wasn’t going to deny him. He would take good care of John now and for the whole week until the heat passed and then on until the day they died. Because they were bonded completely and there was nothing anyone could do about that.


	31. Greg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the long wait again. But in consolation you get a whole four chapters today, and the final parts as soon as I get around to finishing them up. Also note that I updated the total chapter count. It's actually something between 35 and 37, depending on how I group the last parts, but that's it.
> 
> Thanks again to Mich, who puts up with my errors so you don't have to :)
> 
> More thanks goes to the lovely people who leave me wonderful comments. I'm sorry I never get around to thanking all of you <<"

Everybody appreciated the downtime after gruesome cases, but the person who appreciated them most was Greg Lestrade. Because they meant time at home with his kids and with a wife who, for once, had no reason to nag. Time to go play with Sophie or to take David to the mall for that game he wanted. Time to maybe take Liliane to the movies for a chance to just have a pleasant evening with his wife.

But in the wake of John Watson’s appearance, Greg couldn’t seem to appreciate it quite as much any more. Sure, he still loved his children, maybe even more so than before, but Liliane more and more felt like an intruder into his peace, a placeholder where someone else should be. It grated on him and made her worry because he wasn’t quite as loving and affectionate any more. It all felt hollow and untrue to him, like he was cheating on someone he didn’t even know whenever he kissed her good night and told her he loved her.

He wasn’t sure what it meant, this feeling of betrayal, and Greg also didn’t want to examine it too closely right now. They were heading towards their 16 year anniversary and Greg didn’t want to risk it. Not when Sam had promised she’d be home for the weekend and Sophie was already looking forward to see her big sister again. Not when Liliane had already send out the invitations to the friends they wanted to celebrate with. Because Greg knew it was important and he wouldn’t let his own inadequacy ruin a weekend that they’d both put a lot of effort into.

Unfortunately children already learnt in kindergarten that after sight came smell came sound came bond and Greg as well was no exception. Though he got the sound first. The sweetest note that rang through the MET a week before the big weekend and before he could even make the conscious decision for it he was already moving down the hallway and up the stairs, following a tune no one else seemed to hear. He only stopped when he was in front of the director’s door and her secretary blocked him.

“Detective Inspector, what brings you up here? You don’t have an appointment with Mrs. Briggs today”, the young Omega said. He was one of the head strong variant, which was quite needed when working a desk like this one. But just once Greg would have wished the boy wasn’t quite as sharp and more of the pliant ‘whatever you want’ variation he encountered often enough.

“I just thought I heard something and came to check it out. Could you tell me who’s in with the director right now?”, he asked, following the Omega up to his desk.

“Well, I’m not exactly allowed to tell you”, the boy said, running painted fingers though chin length hair, ”but I can say his appointment is almost over, so if you would just wait here you might meet him”, he said and Greg, well, Greg was happy that the boy was as sharp as he was. Because it would have been a stupid move anyway, to burst into a meeting of someone with his boss just because the sound was lovely. What a shitty excuse that would be. And even though the secretary couldn’t reveal details from his boss’ schedule, he gave Greg enough information that he could still meet the source of the mysterious voice. It was already coming through the door again, deep and melodic and now that he could hear it clearly also distinctly male. He easily lost himself into listening and barely noticed the follow up appointment coming up to talk to the secretary. Apparently whoever was in right now was taking more time than he should, but no one dared interrupt them. Interesting.

Finally the scrapping of chairs could be heard from inside, followed by the distinct sound of steps and then the door opened. Greg had to swallow hard to keep from salviating because the smell that came from inside was the most delicious he’d ever smelled. It came from a man, a little taller than himself, dark thinning hair, bespoke suit, polished shoes, carrying an expensive looking leather briefcase. Greg found himself entranced and barely heard the director speaking to him.

“Ah, Greg, I was just going to send for you. Mr. Holmes here has something to talk to you about”, Mrs. Briggs said and Greg just nodded in agreement. Whatever it was he was fine with it as long as it involved more time spent with the man in front of him.

“Inspector. If you could please lead the way to a place with a bit more privacy?”, Mr. Holmes requested and Greg nodded mutely before he turned to leave, completely ignorant of the disapproving looks on his boss’ face. But Greg knew that if he opened his mouth he’d be saying something untoward. Or he’d start drooling in public and that wouldn’t do. So he stayed silent and lead Mr. Holmes - Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Greg was sure of it - down the hallway and down to his floor and then through the maze of rooms to his own office. He closed the door and drew the blinds and then turned his gaze back to the man who had taken a seat already, perfectly poised on the dirty visitors chair. Greg really needed to have the thing replaced.

Greg had no idea where to start, what to say, how to acknowledge what was going on with him, so instead of saying anything he just sat in his chair and waited, sure that Mr. Holmes, Mycroft, would have something to say. But first they sat in silence. Greg was watching the other closely and he could see Mycroft’s eyes flitting across the room, only for the briefest of moments, before they sat focused on Greg, taking in the minute details of his face. Nervously Greg licked his lips, unsure of what to do or say now while both their scents rose in the room. Fuck, he really needed to make an appointment with a consociationist. Yesterday would be best. He should have made one back after the Serial Suicide case when David asked him why he smelled different. He’d told him it was maybe something left over from the case or maybe David’s sense of smell was changing? After all he’d gone into first puberty recently. Maybe he was more aware of things now?

Mentally he berated him while outward keeping a calm facade, but just like with Sherlock there seemed to be no hiding things from Mycroft. The man just kept watching him silently and then he rose to leave. Greg was on his feet instantly.

“Wait? Didn’t you want to say something?”, he asked. He wanted, no he needed, Mycroft to stay, but the man was just giving him an impassive look.

“Yes, but I find I no longer need to. You will not impend my brother’s work or deny doctor Watson access to the crime scenes. Give your wife my regard and tell her she should at least have the decency to divorce you. She started cheating first”, Mycroft said, voice deceptively bland.

And before Greg could say something Mycroft was already gone, door falling shut with a sense of finality. Greg sat back down heavily and stared at it with confusion, hurt and anger. Wasn’t there something between them? Hadn’t Mycroft felt it as well? Was there something wrong with their bond? Because there was no way Mycroft wasn’t his mate. Not with the heavenly, wonderful, dark smell that seemed to permeate every inch of his office now. Not with the beautiful cadence of his deep voice, that had Greg entranced easily. Not with the flashes of imagination that were already shooting through his brain. Scenes of things he’d like to do to the primly dressed Omega. Things like bending him over this very desk. Or having him on his knees in front of him. Things with chains or cuffs and ice-cubes and wax and a long long list of other pleasant things.

Liliane was going to kill him.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with extras attached. Just like the Alpha territorial behaviour we had a few chapters back this time we get the [Omega Nesting Behaviour](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957238/chapters/1989080), which might explain/add depth to some of Mycroft's comments as well as John's behaviour in earlier chapters

Mycroft’s hands were trembling as he climbed back into the car. He shook his head when Anthea opened her mouth to ask what was wrong. He really wasn’t ready to answer that question right now. Instead he told her to cancel all further appointments and no he didn’t care that the ambassador of Turkey had insisted on this meeting for weeks already. And the minister of Defence could surely make it through one meeting without Mycroft there to hold his hand. Mycroft needed to think, so he let the driver take him to his single sanctuary.

The Diogenes Club was empty and the attendants were surprised to see him visiting so very much before his usual time. After all you could set the clock by his time of arrival on any other day. But today Mycroft had other things to worry about than his schedule. For all he knew his schedule would be null and void tomorrow. Later today even, if the DI found him by then. Because what he’d only fantasised about before now had become reality and Mycroft wasn’t sure he was ready or willing to deal with it.

After all it was one thing to lay in bed at night with only a plastic toy for comfort, imagining how it would be to have an Alpha with him, and a completely different thing to actually have the Alpha around. Because in his fantasy he didn’t have to give up control. Ultimately it was him making up what the Alpha made him do. It was him who dreamed of the Alpha who let him go about his day as usual. Him who imagined an Alpha that would give him a schedule that didn’t vary from what he was used to. He was in control at all times, leading and twisting the imaginary DI’s orders and actions to suit his own needs. But now a harmless fantasy had become reality because he’d gone from sending missives to visiting in person. He’d known something was up when he couldn’t resist staying away. He’d known it well. But knowing it and seeing it were two different things and now he needed time to think.

Because where logically his course of action should be clear - make their bond public knowledge, move in with his Alpha, care for his children - there was the matter of happiness to consider, something law rarely did. Because those children, the Inspector’s children, were adopted, either out of foster homes or straight from precarious living conditions. They’d been with the DI and his wife for at least 5 years and had become attached to both their parents. And no matter how much of a right Mycroft had to the children - custody always went to the bonded pair - they were Liliane’s children more than they were his. He’d seen that clear as day in every photo and coloured picture in the office. They were even more Liliane’s children than they were Greg’s, because she was around where he was often kept late at work. And Mycroft was about to break that precarious balance. No matter that Liliane had already started an affair with her son’s PE teacher. No matter that they were more a union of convenience than a real marriage by now. They were still the parents of their children and Mycroft wasn’t sure he should destroy that.

Unfortunately he didn’t know if he could stop himself from destroying it. He’d kicked the first stone down the hill when he visited Mrs. Briggs. Now all he could do was sit back and see what size of avalanche he’d created. He hoped it’d leave their bond standing and the children intact. Because if it didn’t, then Mycroft wasn’t sure he’d recover from it. But even though there was nothing he could really do to help Greg on his side of things, there were things that needed doing. Things like doctors appointments and home decoration. Or maybe that should be packing up his home? Mycroft wasn’t sure. But for now he’d stick with ordering and straightening things out. Because his Alpha would be seeing it all sooner or later and his Omega urges were already taking over.

It was ridiculous when Mycroft thought about it. He’d had almost 20 years with an Alpha around. Almost 20 years he’d lived with his diagnosis. 20 years without so much as a nesting urge. He’d had cacti for almost all of his time at Oxford without even the least bit of guilt about their thorns. He’d left his home a mess when his thesis had demanded all of his attention. He’d moved thrice in a year without even unpacking when his job had demanded it. Never had he thought ‘oh I should really bin that dangerous plant’ or ‘this doesn’t look homely at all’ or ‘what if guests drop by now? I couldn’t even offer them a seat’. No guilt. No worries. Nothing that was pathologic for Omega behaviour. And now a single meeting seemed to have opened the floodgates. Even here, in the pristine safety of the Diogenes Club Mycroft wondered if all the knifes were placed away from the counter’s edge and if his razor was properly put away. And when was the last time the maid had changed the tablecloth? Did he have tea that he could offer his guests? Biscuits past the digestives he favoured?

Five hours later Mycroft was done thinking and ready to start doing. No matter how much he despised legwork, he took the tube to a nearby consociationist, who wasn’t exactly happy to see him unannounced, but when a man like Mycroft came knocking, you made time for him. He still had to wait a bit, but for once he actually found himself interested in the magazines laying around in the waiting area. ‘Happy family’, ‘parents’ and ‘bonds today’ were all the usual colourful trash with advice on how to have your children behaving, how to decorate your home seasonably, and what to do when your Alpha was spending too much time at work. Normally he wouldn’t touch them with a stick but today he found himself skimming page after page, his mind quickly absorbing whatever it deemed necessary. And apparently _necessary_ for his mind meant everything today. It was, really, quite ridiculous and Mycroft was grateful for the consociationist calling him into her office.

The woman, an Omega doctor, listened calmly to his retelling of todays events. She took his blood pressure as well as blood and urine samples and asked a few more questions. She wasn’t best pleased when he told her that he hadn’t talked to Greg about it and had no intention of approaching his mate. After all, she reminded him, it was dangerous for their bond if they denied it for long. It was fragile now and would remain so until they had completed it upon their shared heat, which would happen somewhere in the six weeks. And if they didn’t want to have children immediately, he really should get himself a full contraceptive primary heat shot. But that could only be prescribed with consent from both parts of the pair, so he needed to talk to Greg about it and soon.

Mycroft wasn’t exactly pleased with her advice but figured he had a week at least until he had to force the issue. After all his body had to get itself ready for its next heat and that couldn’t happen in just a day or two. Unless some foul means were in play, like heat inducing medication, it took the Omega body an average of four days to prepare for the heat plus another day and a half to start hormone production on a sufficient level to start the heat. Meaning that even if it was happening right now, Sunday evening was still late enough to have that talk.

Maybe until then he’d have figured out how to deal with the situation without leaving everything in pieces.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is the last to come with extras, showing you [some of the leaflets](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957238/chapters/1989084) Greg was handed at his appointment

After Mycroft had left his office, Greg sat for a while in peace, simply inhaling the Omega’s leftover scent. He knew it was a stupid thing to do and that he’d have to focus on other tasks soon, but since Mycroft had left without so much as acknowledging their bond, Greg wasn’t sure when he’d see the other again. Or if he would. The thought was painful but he knew that as his body was hurrying through secondary puberty, which he should have noticed weeks ago, his emotional state wouldn’t exactly be helpful towards this new formed bond. And if they didn’t strengthen it, didn’t go through shared heat together, it might very well leave them both crippled and unable to ever feel the bond properly. It wasn’t a thought Greg liked to entertain. But he would understand why Mycroft would try to refuse him. After all, his Omega seemed to occupy a position so very far above Greg that it would be insulting for him to have to lower himself beneath Greg.

Then again, Omegas weren’t like Alphas in that regard. They didn’t strive to come out on top, or so the textbooks claimed. Their goal was more harmony and stability, subtly influencing their surroundings into submitting to their wishes. So maybe Mycroft would be happy in their bond, even if he seemed quite a few years younger than Greg, though older than Sherlock. It still left them with a maximum of 12 years of age difference, but maybe Mycroft would enjoy the security of the bond. Maybe he’d be willing to reconcile his professional life with his new home situation. And who knew, maybe he’d even accept David and Sophie into his life. There was no real need for him to also accept Sam, who was already off to Her Majesty’s Musical Academy in London. She’d already been diagnosed and likely would only return home to get her belongings. She hadn’t met her mate yet, but then she’d been born in Ireland, so they’d booked her a week long trip for after graduation. No, his oldest wouldn’t need Mycroft to accept her, but David and Sophie would.

And even if Mycroft wasn’t ready to accept their bond, Greg wouldn’t let his chance at bonding go to waste. He’d waited and hoped and prayed long enough to finally get his wishes. And since Mycroft hadn’t run in fear - even if he did run - Greg wasn’t discouraging himself. Instead he left work after lunch on claims of not feeling well and headed for a consociationist.

It had been ages since he’d visited one, back before his marriage. When he’d still hoped that any day was the day he’d start secondary puberty. So now he had to spend the first fifteen minutes filling out questionnaires about things like ‘have you already been diagnosed’ and ‘what secondary gender do you think you have’ and ‘have you ever experienced heat like symptoms’. It was all very personal stuff and Greg was happy when he could finally hand the neatly filled sheets of paper to the smiling receptionist, who just put the damnable thing into a paper file and asked him to take a seat again until the doctor called him in.

So Greg spend the next 20 minutes shifting restless in his seat while around him the waiting area filled with nervous Omegas, pregnant Omegas, territorial Alphas and one unassuming Beta who hid in the last corner. Greg tried to pass the time by deducing his fellow waiters, but he never got past the obvious things like age, primary gender, secondary gender and employment status. He had theories of course, but they were intangible and would need further evidence. Had Sherlock been here - or maybe Mycroft, based on his statement regarding Liliane - he’d of course known all the details and theories plus everything else of interest. And Mycroft would likely know the same. Greg briefly wondered just how brilliant his Holmes was, because yes, he couldn’t help but think of Mycroft as his. After all he had some relationship to Sherlock and had already shown an impressive feat of deduction going on nothing but Greg’s looks. Because everything else in his office had been arranged back before David had changed schools. 

Before he could despair however at the most likely brilliance of his mate, the consociationist called his name. Greg quickly gathered his briefcase and headed into the examination room. Once inside the woman gave him a long look before she examined his file, all the while leaving him to stew in silence. It was excruciating, but Greg kept himself in check, teeth grinding at the back of his mouth as he waited for the Alpha to put down the file.

“So, Mr. Lestrade,” she said at last, “You said you hadn’t been diagnosed yet but that you believe to have entered secondary puberty recently. How did you come to that assumption?”

“Well, I came to believe that because I met my mate today,” he said, not willing to beat around the bush. He just wanted to get this over with so he could head home in time to catch Liliane while the children were still at school.

“And why’s e not with you today?” the doctor asked, “surely you must know that separation right after meeting your mate can be determinable to your bond strength.”

“I wasn’t willing to stop him from doing his work. It is very important to him and I wouldn’t want to impend on his ability to do it.”

“So you would rather risk your bond than have your Omega’s work threatened?” the doctor asked, a hint of disbelieve in her voice, but Greg just nodded.

“Yes. He takes great pride in his work and his happiness should be my paramount concern, shouldn’t it?” he asked and mentally he added ‘his job also seems to be a matter of national importance and I wouldn’t want to risk the country for my bond’.

The doctor gave him a sardonic smile and rose from her chair.

“That is quite true. Still, to support your claim we’ll need to run a full physical exam as well as take blood and urine samples. Are you able to provide both now or should I have Marie prepare some tea for you?”, she asked, completely unperturbed as she got out the blood pressure cuff.

Greg nodded and unbuttoned his shirt so he could slip it off one shoulder.

“Tea won’t be necessary, though I wouldn’t refuse a cup if we’ll be at this for a while,” he said. The doctor nodded and started taking the blood pressure efficiently.

“No. This’ll not take more than ten minutes and the tea would just be done by then. Blood pressure is a little elevated but nothing I haven’t seen for someone in your position. Now take off your shirt so I can listen to your chest,” she instructed, sounding almost bored with it.

 

It wasn’t quite ten minutes, more like fifteen, but then Greg found himself holding an official looking document. The quick hormonal test in the urine sample had turned up positive in a matter of seconds so Greg now had a Date of Diagnosis. April 11th 2011. Not too bad, all things considered. Now to break it to Liliane, he thought grimly as he left the doctor’s office and headed out to pick Liliane up from work.

 

The following conversation, in a little cafe two blocks from her workplace, wasn’t as spectacular as Greg had thought it would be. There was definitely less shouting and less throwing than he’d feared. There was still a lot of resentment, but he had to admit the feeling was mutual. Luckily, with her having her little affair with the teacher she didn’t exactly have much of a leg to stand on and couldn’t really claim the moral high ground. As it was, that ground even belonged to Greg, who’d not jumped into bed with Mycroft the first chance he had but instead talked to Liliane. Of course he didn’t say that. He wanted this affair to be over as painless as possible and as soon as possible and luckily Liliane was on board with it.

So, they decided, they’d turn their 16th marriage anniversary into an improptu breakup/bond celebration party where they both fessed up and introduced their new significant other so everyone knew who they were dealing with. It meant, of course, that Greg needed to get into contact with Mycroft soon, which would likely force him to ask Sherlock for help. Greg wasn’t exactly keen on that, especially since Sherlock was still feeling highly territorial concerning John. The recent run in with a Sherlock obsessed criminal hadn’t really helped with that.

But he had to admit what scared him even more than the idea of facing Sherlock and asking for his brother’s phone number, was the thought that he’d have to tell David and Sophie tonight. He’d have to call Sam as well, but it wouldn’t impact her as much as it did David or Sophie. Little Sophie who’d just grown used to having both mommy and daddy stick around for more than a few weeks at a time and who’d have to adjust to having mommy go away again already. Liliane was already on the phone with their family therapist. Yes, they had one, it was necessary and good for all of them and Greg wouldn’t hesitate to end whoever implied his children were in some way deficient because they spend an hour every other week with Mrs. Brigitte. If she had time for them all tomorrow, maybe they could even visit her instead of muddling their way through it tonight. And if she didn’t, maybe Liliane would return from the call with some advice on how to deal with the situation. 

Because no matter how little they had gotten along in the recent months, they were still united in one thing. And that was the happiness of their children.


	34. Chapter 34

Lucky for Greg it was John who picked up the phone at Baker Street. It was a small miracle in and of itself, John mused while he made small talk with the DI. After all since the pool incident Sherlock didn’t let him out of arms reach. But even great consulting detectives needed to shower every once in a while and no matter how much he enjoyed his Alpha’s doting, he was not sharing a shower just because Sherlock didn’t trust him to not run off. They’d already had more than one talk on the issue, but Sherlock still seemed disinclined to give John the space he required. John knew they were headed for a major argument, but right now he had other issues to deal with. Like finding out why Greg needed the cell phone number of Mycroft Holmes.

“Come on, Greg,” he said, stretching out more comfortable in his armchair. “Tell me what you would want from Mycroft Holmes that he isn’t already dealing with.”

“ _Maybe he is already dealing with it, but I still need to talk to him. It’s kind of a private matter,_ ” Greg said at the other end of the line. He sounded wound up and tired at the same time but John enjoyed his small moment of power too much to let that stop him.

“Why talk to him when he’s already taking care of it?” John asked. He knew he was behaving completely inappropriate and fuck it felt good to be immature once in a while.

“ _Because I need to know how he deals with it,_ ” Greg said and there was a distinct growl in his voice now. John was fairly sure that if Sherlock had used that tone with him, he’d already be on his knees involuntarily, a thought that made his expression sour.

“Don’t you trust him to make the right decisions? You do know that he does nothing but make the right decisions, right?” he asked, feeling defensive of Mycroft all of a sudden. Which was ridiculous because Mycroft didn’t need anyone to defend him. But ever since their shared heat, John had had more than a few mood swings. He’d stopped fighting them by now.

“ _Yes I do, John. But there are pieces of information that he might not possess so if you could please give me his cell number,_ ” Greg said, sounding exasperated now.

John could hear the unspoken ‘or I’ll call your Alpha and complain to him’, but even though it made his hackles rise he knew that Greg would have said the same before they were bonded, so he nodded.

“Okay. Just give me a second and I’ll text it to you. Still not willing to tell me what it is?” he asked lastly. He could hear the sigh clearly through the phone.

“ _Ta mate. And I’ll tell ya, but only after I have talked to Mycroft. As I said it’s personal and I’ll need to talk to him first before making anything public,_ ” Greg said. John of course was able to put two and two together, but didn’t say anything about it. He could just imagine how difficult private relations would be when they concerned Mycroft Holmes. Especially in the position of Omega.

“No problem. Talk to you later,” he said and then ended the call. He’d always assumed that Sherlock calling Mycroft an Omega was just teasing. Sure his smell had the soft fragrances that were usually connected to Omega, but John had seen more than one commercial about special perfumes aimed to make you smell more like this and more like that, all in an attempt to make yourself more threatening or non threatening or anything in between. But there was no way Greg wasn’t an Alpha. So unless he had another Harry situation at hand, Mycroft Holmes really was an Omega, Greg Lestrade was his Alpha and they had just met for the first time. There were no other explanations to Greg’s sudden interest in the older Holmes, the insistence it was personal, and the worry about just how Mycroft was dealing with it. Shaking his head John selected Mycroft’s contact information and forwarded it to Greg, fully aware that it also included the address and phone number of the Diogenes Club, but not Mycroft’s home address.

“Who called?” Sherlock asked from the doorway, clad in only his dressing gown and a towel he was using to dry his hair. John gritted his teeth at the question and levelled a cool gaze on Sherlock. It was about time they had that discussion about boundaries.

“You tell me,” he bit out, straightening in his seat a bit. Sherlock looked him over critically and then took a seat in his own armchair so they sat facing each other but with a safe distance between them. It definitely didn’t allow for casual touches.

“I thought you didn’t want me deducing you all the time. But if you insist. You had a call from a friend, who asked you for information you just forwarded. It couldn’t be Harry because you have no contact information that she’d be interested in. Molly wouldn’t make you smile fondly like that because you find her unnerving. For Sarah goes what I already said about Molly, which leaves only Greg as the caller,” Sherlock said smugly. “He asked for someone’s contact details and I would say Mycroft’s, but why he would want to call him I can not fathom.”

John sighed but nodded his head in agreement.

“Yes it was Greg. Yes he asked for Mycroft’s phone number. And I find it deeply annoying how much you control me.”

He’d actually wanted to phrase it more harshly, but he seemed to be unable to stay properly mad at Sherlock these days. Especially when listening to him ramble his deductions. It was part of his Omega physiology, John knew. The inability to cause unrest in his own home. The need to keep the peace and abide by his Alpha’s wishes. It clashed quite brilliantly with what he wanted and it was driving him mad.

“You’re upset with me,” Sherlock said calmly, though John could see his fingers twitching where they rested on his knees. John had over the last week noticed that Sherlock had a fondness for touching him. Casual pats on the shoulder, sensual scratches of his back, possessive holds on his wrist. They were all part of Sherlock’s modus operandi these days.

“Yes I am,” John said. He wanted to say more, wanted to rage at Sherlock for forgetting that John had survived 20 years without him. But he stayed silent. Sherlock always worked best when he arrived at the conclusion on his own.

“You weren’t upset with me before we bonded.”

“Right again”, John said because Sherlock’s statement had sounded more like a question.

“Are you unhappy about the bond?” Sherlock asked and the pain that sounded in the question made John want to get up and go curl up in Sherlock’s lap, made him want to comfort his Alpha and tell him all was well. But they needed to have it out or John would go crazy.

“Not about the bond itself,” he said cautiously.

“But about the particularities that go with it,” Sherlock said, looking at John closely now. “In particular our interpersonal interactions.”

John nodded slowly and kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s hands. He wasn’t sure he could meet the other’s eyes without going over.

“You are unhappy with the way I treat you and the way you feel compelled to treat me,” Sherlock stated and John knew this couldn’t be answered with a simple nod, so he licked his lips and raised his eyes to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yes and no. I don’t mind what the bond makes me want to do. I enjoy upholding the peace and I like to care for you. But I resent the way you treat me. I haven’t suddenly turned fragile just because we’re bonded. And Moriarty wasn’t the first one to take me hostage. It didn’t make me weak or more vulnerable. I can still shoot a gun just as well as before we bonded and I won’t suddenly run off just because I have a moment of privacy to myself. It’s annoying that you think you need to accompany me to the grocer when you didn’t do so before because it means you don’t trust me to do the job right any longer. I positively hate that you suddenly seem to be unable to look past the Omega label and realise that I’m still the same man that I was before we shared our heat. Just because we are now bonded doesn’t mean I need you to take care of me more than I did before. I don’t need a guardian and I don’t need a watchdog, Sherlock. What I need is a partner who will accept that I am not going to quit my job for his peace of mind and who will let me handle my share of duties without constant supervision.”

John wasn’t quite sure where all that had suddenly come from and from the look of it Sherlock was as surprised as he was. John could see anger welling up inside Sherlock, but it dissipated after a few moments of silence. John was grateful for this because if Sherlock had actually dared raise his voice in anger in John’s home, he would… actually John wasn’t sure what he would have done. Because if Sherlock was raising his voice in anger because John spoke his mind, maybe he should consider rooming with Greg for a while. Or Mycroft. It seemed to be the more appropriate choice right now. But Sherlock was calm again and there was a distinct look of pain in his eyes.

“I… I’m sorry John. I didn’t know that was how you felt. But I don’t think I will be able to contain myself quite as much as you seem to want. Because no matter that you are still an independent man, you are also now my Omega. And where you find yourself prompted to care for us physically, to provide us with a homely nest and a healthy diet, I find myself prompted to care for you, even if you don’t want it. It’s like a need to make sure you are healthy and well and no one will dare touch you. And well, from what I know of the Alphas of London, they are terrible when it comes to keeping their hands to themselves. Moriarty was just the most daring of the lot. I just… I just need to know you’re safe John and that everyone out there knows to keep their hands to themselves.”

Sighing John sat forward a bit and opened his arms.

“Come here, Sherlock,” John prompted and wasn’t surprised when the Alpha was in his lap in an instant. Carefully John wrapped the younger man in an embrace.

“I don’t mind that you want to keep me safe, Sherlock. You can’t help your biology as much as I can. But we need to establish boundaries and we need to stick to them. I… I don’t mind that you mistrust other Alphas. It’s one of your better features to be honest. But you need to trust me to protect myself. And if it makes you feel better about me going out alone, you could always put a collar on me you know?” John offered, mouth rather dry at the last words.

“A collar, John? Would you really be okay with that? I always figured you’d be uncomfortable with such an archaic claim,” Sherlock said, wrapping his own arms tightly around his Omega.

“I wouldn’t have brought it up if I weren’t, Sherlock,” John said serious, resting his head against Sherlock’s chest. “And yes, I would be okay with it. Hell, I’m fairly sure I’d even enjoy it. After all it’ll be proof that our bond wasn’t just a dream. A heat induced hallucination. You do know I’ve been waiting 20 years for this, don’t you? So yes, I would be okay with wearing your claim around my neck. But only if that means you’ll trust that the collar will keep unwanted attention away and that you will let me take care of anything else. Because if you are still hovering over my shoulder after I put it on, we will have to have words again.”

Sherlock nodded and leaned down to kiss John. First his head and then his ear and down to his neck, where he also placed a small bite and soon enough he had John sprawled not in his armchair but their old sofa for a bout of conciliatory sex. He could always find a collar later.


	35. Mycroft

Chapter 35  
Of all the things Mycroft had been prepared for after his run-in with his mate, having his phone ring wasn't one of them. At least not his private cell phone. The one reserved for Sherlock, John and aunt Helena. Only it was neither of them. Instead an unfamiliar number was displayed on screen and for a moment Mycroft wondered if Sherlock had purchased a new phone and wanted to get a prank call in before Mycroft received the news. But no matter, he still said 'Mycroft Holmes' when he picked up and was rewarded with a pleased sigh from the other end of the line. 

" _Good evening. It's Greg. DI Lestrade. I hope I'm not interrupting anything,_ " the DI said, voice a curious mixture of hopeful, apologetic, and assertive. It seemed Mycroft wasn't the only one on uneven footing in their situation. The thought helped a little. Casually Mycroft closed the file he'd been reading over in the self-appointed hour of working at home in the evening. 

"No, nothing that couldn't wait. It's a pleasure to hear from you..." Mycroft said, trailing off unsure. In his fantasy or an ideal world he'd have finished that statement with 'sir', but they hadn't talked about that yet. And Inspector sounded terribly impersonal, just like Greg implied a level of familiarity Mycroft didn't feel he had a right to claim yet. 

" _The pleasure's mine,_ " Greg said, sounding a little more at ease now. " _I just wanted to call and hear if you're well_ "

_Lie_. Mycroft’s mind immediately supplied, but he didn't call Greg on it yet. No, he'd rather believe that Greg had really just called to enquire after Mycroft's well being. As well he should. They were bonded after all, no matter how much trouble that brought.

"I am fine, thank you for asking. The consocationist ensured me all was in working order and prescribed me a heat shot, though she said she'd need your input as well if I wanted a primary heat contraceptive as well," he said, licking his lips nervously, a gesture he only allowed himself in the privacy of his own home. But still, it was a rather presumptuous and underhanded request. After all it was implying both that they'd have a shared heat and that Greg would want to use contraceptives. Of course Greg's call was already a good indication that the DI wasn't interested in letting their bond wither and die a painful death, but maybe Greg wanted more children? Maybe he wanted a child of his own and wasn't willing to wait - after all Mycroft was well past the time to have his first child already. The thought was frightening, but Mycroft knew that, if Greg was willing to start this, then he would comply. After all there were ways in which he could work from home. Maybe he should start having Anthea take more of the official function? Installing her as his replacement - or rather his equal - sooner rather than later. 

" _I'm relieved to hear that. My cosociationist said about the same after giving me my diagnosis. But children are something I would rather talk to you in person. And there are a number of other issues we need to talk about before announcing anything. Would you have time to have dinner with me tomorrow evening?_ " Greg asked and Mycroft's mind immediately flicked to his schedule and quickly rearranged it to take the evening off. 

"Of course," he said while composing a short message to Anthea, there was nothing important that couldn't be postponed after all. And if he had to skip lunch and the Diogenes visit to have everything ready in time, so be it. "Would 6 suit?" 

" _Sure. Anywhere special you'd like to go?_ " Greg asked. He sounded almost eager to follow Mycroft’s lead on this. Mycroft just hoped this was simply due to the newness of their situation. But even so Mycroft had no intention to take the lead. It would just set a bad foundation for their future interactions.

“No, just pick some place you like and send me the address. I’ll make sure to be there at 6,” Mycroft returned, curious what kind of place Greg would chose. After all this would basically be their first official date.

 

“ _Okay then. Anything you don’t like to eat?_ ” Greg asked. The DI was likely hoping for a hint, but Mycroft was not inclined to give one. Or rather, he wasn’t a picky eater, and he told Greg so before they ended their conversation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the next day, Mycroft was more or less useless. Of course he finished his tasks in time, but it took a sheer unprecedented amount of willpower to focus on the delicate balance that made up foreign relations as well as economic planning. Whenever he stopped actively focusing on the task at hand, he found his attention wandering to the restaurant Greg had chosen for their date. It was a rather average Italian restaurant - neither posh nor poor, not explicitly family friendly and not aimed at singles. It also wasn’t the place Sherlock liked to frequent - in fact Mycroft hadn’t heard of the place before Greg had sent the address. And that made Mycroft insanely obsessed with it right until the point where he stood in front of it and smiled as Greg Lestrade walked up to him.

The sight of the Alpha alone, his Alpha, was enough to make him smile in return and want to bow or something. It was really quite ridiculous, but Mycroft was in no mood to chastise himself for it. As long as Greg didn’t care, Mycroft would do his best not to concern himself with it.

“Hey Mycroft. I hope you didn’t wait long,” Greg greeted him and after a moment of hesitation he took Mycroft’s hand to place a kiss on his knuckles. It was a rather old fashioned gesture, but Mycroft rather enjoyed it. He also couldn’t help but blush at the public display of affection and was reluctant to pull his hand back.

“Oh no, sir. I had just arrived as well,” Mycroft returned, throwing all caution and control to the wind. If Greg didn’t like his choice of nickname then he could well say it. Fortunately Mycroft could see the older’s eyes darken a bit and the hold the DI had on his hand tightened. Mycroft just let his hand go lax as Greg led him into the restaurant. The waiter had apparently expected them and led them to a table at the back. Mycroft was surprised to hear the DI make smalltalk with the waiter. But from the way the older’s eyes darkened a bit that wasn’t the case. If anything Greg held his hand more firmly and used it to lead him into the restaurant, where a waiter immediately lead them to a table at the back. Apparently Greg had made reservations and was familiar with the staff, a clear sign that he used to come here frequently. Mycroft felt his insides warm pleasantly at the idea that his mate wasn’t hiding him. He didn’t pick an anonymous restaurant he’d never been to before. No, he went to a place where the waiter asked where he left his children today and who was the nice gentleman at his side. Mycroft just remained silent through Greg’s reply, content to let someone else lead for a chance. He also left it up to his Alpha to order their food.

Twenty minutes later they both had plates of steaming pasta in front of them, glasses of red wine to go with it and Greg was looking at him pensively. Apparently they were going to bring out the difficult topics right from the start. Or maybe there simply were no easy topics until this was sorted.

“So, before we go on, and maybe I should have asked you that yesterday already but, are you happy with the bond? Do you like the idea of it?” Greg asked, obviously nervous. Mycroft nodded minutely.

“Who wouldn’t enjoy the idea of a bond? But, yes, I am quite happy with it and with you. I am sure we will be able to get along well which is the first thing one should consider,” he told the DI, who nodded.

“Yes. The same is true for me. I am a bit pensive concerning the details of our life together, but I am sure we can make it work. Unfortunately we won’t be able to spend much time getting used to each other. My former wife and I were planning to celebrate our marriage anniversary this weekend. And since the whole family was already invited we would like to make an official announcement concerning our divorce that day as well as announce our bond. Would you be okay with that?” Greg asked. Mycroft was taken aback by the idea, but he didn’t let his instinctual dislike of the idea show on his face.

"You do realise, that if we make this an official bond recognition event then Sherlock will have to attend, right?" Mycroft asked and wasn't surprised by Greg's expression of horror.

"We can't unleash him on my family. And why would he need to attend. Sibling recognition isn't required," Greg reasoned, but Mycroft didn’t let himself be discouraged.

"Not in your circles, no. But in my family it would be considered insulting, not that Sherlock concerns himself with boring things like social convention. I would still feel rather bad to meet your family without my family's dominant Alpha present," Mycroft said, expression a little sour, clearly showing his displeasure. 

"What do you mean dominant Alpha? Surely you don't want to tell me that Sherlock is the leader of the Holmes family," Greg said, disbelief colouring his voice. Mycroft was sure that Greg was trying to mentally reconcile the stereotypic stern family head with Sherlock the drug using kid he’d met years ago. The Alpha’s disbelief almost covered the insulted feeling. Unfortunately if Greg was this testy when it came to social status then he should take cover if he ever met aunt Helena.

"Oh he is in all but name. He'd likely have ruined us if he ever bothered to show up to any of the family functions. But since aunt Helena, who holds the title for the time being, is currently residing in India, Sherlock will finally have to step up to his responsibilities. He would have to do it anyway now that John’s in the picture," Mycroft said. He knew he sounded disgruntled, but Greg nodded in understanding so he didn’t feel unjustified. After all it was one thing to know Sherlock could, if he put himself to it, become the leader of their family. It was an entirely different thing to have Sherlock acting the part in front of a bunch of strangers who were about to become his family. Mycroft could already imagine the horror at Sherlock’s tactlessness and his dismissal of anyone whom he found inferior. And no matter how much Sherlock disliked the idea of leading, in a situation like this, with Mycroft about to leave his scope of influence, there would be snarling, and threatening. And Mycroft had no illusions about Greg’s reaction. Luckily his mate had followed a similar train of thought and had decided to submit to his fate.

“Well then I’d better prepare my wife for finally meeting Sherlock”, Greg said with little humour and Mycroft just nodded curtly.

For a few minutes they both ate before Mycroft decided it was his turn to breach an uncomfortable topic.

“How did your children take it?” he asked, knowing that a lot depended on their acceptance of the situation. He could see Greg’s face going a little blank at the question but his mate didn’t deny him his answer.

“David was more or less okay with it, but Sophie is scared that she’ll loose me too now that Liliane is moving out. We’ve decided not to drag this through the court and instead explain that Liliane will no longer be part of the family now that you’re in the picture. The doc said she’ll be very wary around you at first for fear that you’ll make her go away. She also suggested that we don’t have biological children right away so that Sophie will not have reason to fear that I’m replacing her with a ‘real child’,” Greg explained calmly, though it was obvious that he disliked the whole situation. 

“I will do my best to make them both feel welcome,” Mycroft simply returned. “What about Sam?”

“She was mostly upset that she can’t be there this weekend because, and I quote here, ‘she needs to make sure my mate isn’t a boring douche’,” Greg chuckled, and Mycroft smiled in return.

“I will endeavour to put her worries to rest. Would you think a message left on her pillow will ensure her that I am more than able to not be boring?” he asked, which had Greg laughing some more. It was a good look on him.

“It’ll be a step in the right direction. Though you’ll set yourself up for much of a headache if you give her ideas,” Greg returned easily and Mycroft could feel himself relax as well.

“I will exercise moderation then. Has the psychiatrist advised you on living arrangements? Should I move in with you or would it be more advisable that we move into a new flat or house?” Mycroft asked and mentally chided himself when the word ‘house’ made Greg shift uneasily in his chair.

“She suggested that we move, but leaving London would be difficult. David just changed school and Sophie has just started school and I wouldn’t want to have either of them switch after the first year. But yes, a new flat would be good,” Greg said and Mycroft nodded in agreement.

“I’ll have my assistant look into appropriate flats or townhouses. Would you say five bedrooms will be enough? Or better six?” he asked and Greg just looked at him with wide eyes, fork halfway on the way to his mouth before he sat it down again.

“What would we need six bedrooms for?” he asked, sounding almost uncomfortable with the idea.

“Well, one bedroom for us. A room for Sophie. A room for David. A living room. Makes four already. I will need an office and we might need a guest room at some point. Or make that room into a play room for the children,” Mycroft counted. They’d had easily twice as many rooms at the cottage so six really seemed like a good number, at least until David was ready to move out.

Greg just kept staring at him for a few minutes before he remembered that he should eat his pasta before it cooled completely.

“Okay. If you think we need six bedrooms I’ll follow your lead on it. But nothing too big, we will still need to furnish it and pay rent,” he added, which made Mycroft’s face twist into an expression that clearly said ‘oh ye of little faith’.

“With your and my salary we’d be easily able to afford seven or eight bedrooms, but yes, six it’ll be and maybe we could take the children with us to pick the place?” Mycroft suggested. Greg just stared at him a little more and nodded mutely. Mycroft in returned smiled serenely. He had no intention to slow himself down for his Alpha. Fortunately years spent with Sherlock should have prepared the older for the Holmes intellect. And they had the rest of their lives to get used to each other.


	36. Greg

As far as Greg was concerned Saturday came much too quickly. Sure, Sophie had warmed up quickly to Mycroft after they spend all Thursday flat shopping. Greg still wasn’t sure how Mycroft had got them appointments for 20 different places all around London in just two days, but he found he didn’t really want to know. He’d also learnt that, for all his bright mind and decision making skills, Mycroft could also be deliciously demure, something Liliane had never been fond of. They still had their ups and downs, which was to be expected of a newly bonded couple, but they had an underlying foundation of trust and acceptance for each other’s oddities, so Greg was sure that all would work out.

This was especially noticeable once the guests started to arrive. After they’d changed the invitation text, making it clear that instead of a simple anniversary this would be the piece of family gossip for the next ten years everyone suddenly had time for them. Even Greg’s aunts and uncles had found time to come to London and see this newest addition to the Lestrade clan. Greg had just been glad they’d rented the whole restaurant, so no one was there to complain about the children crying and the adults gossiping and Sherlock driving all of them to tears. It was, Greg thought, quite amusing to watch. Especially with Mycroft at his side who would lean in every once in a while to whisper an additional detail in his ear that Sherlock had missed.

So what if he used half of those lean ins to grab Mycroft’s chin so he could plant a kiss on his mate’s lips. They were newly bonded so they were pretty much expected to do stuff like that. And from the way Mycroft would shiver beneath him whenever he held him in place a little longer than necessary, his mate didn’t mind at all. 

Greg couldn’t wait to finally have this thing over and done with so he could take his new family home to the nice townhouse Mycroft had convinced him was perfect for them so he could do filthy things to his Omega while the children where two floors down in their own rooms. Yes, life was pretty much perfect as far as he was concerned.

~THE END~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this we're done
> 
> Thank you very much to everyone who stuck with me, especially Mich, who beta'd this and all you lovely folks who left me comments.  
> Especially Cody and Lapus, you two always stuck out to me ♥
> 
> For all of you, who will now asking for a sequel: NOT YET! First I need to see Season three and get back into the fandom. But after that I have a lot of additional material that needs to be addressed, both with John and Sherlock but also with Mycroft and Greg. If the mood strikes I might post updates on the meta post.
> 
> Again thank you for sticking with me and I hope I'll see you again whenever. If you want to meanwhile stalk me or are into 00Q, feel free to visit me on tumblr http://entangledwood.tumblr.com/


End file.
